Beneath the Light
by Mouse
Summary: A story of Maeglin, traitor of Gondolin, and the torment of his desire for Idril Celebrindal. **WIP**
1. Intro:Maeglin in Gondolin

***Disclaimer: I don't own Arda or anything in it. I'm not making any money (unless you feel the need to send me some, in which case I'll keep very quiet about it). This is done in appreciation to Tolkien for creating a truly fascinating elf.***  
  
  
  
I stand beside my mother, the White Lady of Gondolin, and look across at my mother's brother, Turgon, for he sits as king upon the throne. Taken from the darkness of Nan Elmoth and to the splendour of Gondolin, I feel blinded by its light. Beyond its radiant surface I cannot see; I, Maeglin, Sharp Glance, perceive nothing but the lustre of Elven-work and Elven-faces, all thoughts honourable, all deeds noble. Yet a light that is lit in the mid-day is not seen; only the dark of night reveals its brilliance. I know it is there in Gondolin, a darkness, somewhere. In time, I will see it.  
  
"Ar-Feiniel" Turgon titles my mother with love, and rejoices in her return. His face is keen, and he looks out in scrutiny, his eyes searching in me for the imprint of my sire, Eol, the Dark Elf, who shuns the Noldor in blame of Morgoth's return. But I am likened to my mother's kin, and it pleases the King, who has no son. The highest honour he promises to the son of the White Lady, the highest honour in his realm.  
  
"My lord and king," I say, and bow low. I peer up at him in slight, little though I can see without lifting my face. "Thy will shall become mine, and through me be done." And I say no more.  
  
But now in raising I see to the left of the King the light of Vasa, Heart of Fire, and it dazzles me. It breaks through the crystalline flesh of a lissome Elf-maiden, scattered into a myriad of rainbows on her hair and smooth white throat. She is lit from within and cannot contain the light, and so it spills from every gesture, every glance. She is fair, fair beyond all the glorious works of Gondolin, and she is Idril called Silverfoot, the daughter of Turgon.  
  
Now she looks back at me and is stirred, but not with the love that I feel. "Cousin Maeglin," she says, and her voice drops like the paleness of rain. "Gondolin welcomes you."  
  
And are you not part of Gondolin, Silver Maiden, you who look upon me and are troubled? There is no welcome in her, save the beacon of her beauty which draws me ever deeper inside of it. "Celebrindal," is the length of my reply, and I shunt my glance, fearing indeed to be drowned in her luminance.  
  
)*(  
  
  
I feel the heat of my father's heart as he is brought before Turgon's throne. Cold the Dark Elf is not. The burn of his anger is what forced him onward, ever closer until at last he has come upon us. I see the fire swell behind his eyes, and in his hands, as he gazes upon Gondolin even as I did, in wonder, in jealous hatred. He spurns the King's outstretched hand of friendship, denies the laws and rights of Gondolin. Claim he lays to his own, to his wife Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, and to his son Maeglin.  
  
But in Aredhel is also the claim of Gondolin, and her Eol leaves to will of the king. Upon me his grim stare is sharpened, and he beckons me as Father to leave those who slew his kin. A curse, he says, shall be upon me otherwise.  
  
A curse already was my life, too many years spent in the darkness so that I do not know the light, and it rejects me. I cannot go back to the night. I will stay with the Noldor. But this I do not tell my father, for I see in him the fire is dying, and his heart is turning cold.  
  
King Turgon speaks in firmness to Eol from his high seat, and gives him the choice of abiding here where we stand, or dying here. I also am subject to these choices.  
  
So my father stands still without voice, fixing his eyes hard to the face of the king. And he chooses the second option for himself and for me, revealing from beneath his cloak a javelin. He casts it against me, the point sharpened with which to take his own. And his own it pierces, for my mother jumps before me to catch the javelin in her shoulder, and she is collapsed.  
  
She is tended by many, and many surround my father also to put him in bonds. I see now foolishness in Eol, and feel contempt at his reasonings. What can one claim in death? To possess you must live.   
  
Idril is watching me, wary of my silence, and again I feel the press of her beauty eat at my heart and mind. I feel a strange desire, that she was a creation of my own, that I had wrought and shaped such a jewelled light with my own hands. But even what you have not made, you can possess.  
  
Yes, I choose life.  
  
)*(  
  
  
The spear of Eol carried a dark poison, and in the night my mother died. The King has forsaken mercy, and we stand now at the Caragdur, the sheer walls of Gondolin from which the Dark Elf shall be cast and become no more. Before he is thrown Eol speaks last to me his son in anguish, and because I forsook him he lays a curse to me, that I should fall to the same death as he.  
  
Yet in his fall I feel free, like I sail though the air with him. His death is just, the Elves of Gondolin decide, and turn from him. Yes, it is just, they believe, and even I must agree, his kin. I know they look at me and are pleased in my silence, in my sacrifice to justice and law, and high they esteem me now, dissociated from my father whom they just killed. A prince among the Noldor am I, and greater will I become in time, to Turgon and all the people.  
  
And ever beside her father shines the light of Idril. But she has turned now away from me in complete, so that out of the sunlight I fall into her shadow. In shadow I grow cold. And wiser now I see the darkness in Gondolin, and find it is within me. 


	2. Part 2

***Disclaimer: It's all Tolkien's, I'm just borrowing Maeglin. (As far Idril's concerned, he's welcome to her.)***  
  
  
Part 2  
  
I had not intended to find her, but now that I have, I do not intend to leave her. Her back is to me so I stand openly near the green banks of the shallow stream, relieved from the afternoon heat by the shadow of the birch grove behind me, unmoving, watching.  
  
The hem of her pale blue-grey skirts Idril holds up with one hand; the other carries a garland of flowers, golden elanor woven among stark white evermind. Her feet are bare, slender and silvered white, and lightly they skim the mirror surface of the water. Now she stands still, face lifted and eyes closed as the wind blows a light spray to her face, and it is not the sun's light, I know, but that of Idril which breaks the water to rainbowed light, red and gold and violet. Her hair is pearled with droplets, gently flailing against her back in a shimmer of unadorned radiance.  
  
Her eyes open, Idril leans and lays the blossom wreath to the stream, scattering water through her fingers over the petals, following for a few steps as it begins to flow with the current. But soon it is carried out of sight, and Idril straightens, lips parting in a faint laugh.   
  
"Why do you not speak, Maeglin?" she asks, her feet stepping nimble to a stone in the steam. Her face turns, her eyes seeking me among the trees.  
  
I wait until she sees me before replying. "I have naught to say, lady." I step forward, but I am uncertain, unused to the ease of her voice. She does not withdraw, but smiles, and with a dewy willow arm reaches to me, a beckon to come closer.  
  
"That cannot be true," her voice carries light and eagerly I step toward her into the steam, the coldness shocking brisk against my bare feet. "You see much," Idril continues, her eyes fixed on my face. "And long days you spend learning from the craftsmen and loremasters of Gondolin. Tell me what you know, Maeglin," she says and her voice is filled with a curiosity too sharp for idle interest. Yet I care not, for her sunlit eyes are unblinking upon me and I am almost to her . . .  
  
"Tell me what you are thinking," she speaks softly, her chin tilting to the side, and I perceive that she dreads my silence, know that she mistrusts my thoughts and words both.  
  
Now I am unsure, apprehensive, and my pace grows unsteady, the river stones shifting beneath my feet. I strive for balance. I will not tell her what I think, I cannot tell her, surely I cannot speak what I know in the presence of one so sublime and retain my sanity . . . But lovely and silver and wordless her hand is held to me still, and cutting through the water I reach and in sudden desperation clasp it with my own--  
  
"There is a darkness," the words are gasped from my mouth, unbidden. "I cannot escape it, for it comes from within me, and it will hold no light. It is like a pit, a gaping void, and I cannot . . . get out . . ." I try to breathe but I cannot see her, I cannot think. "The sky does not warm me. You have so much light, Idril, Celebrindal . . . I can feel it, sometimes, when you are near . . . I feel it, and it is almost there, almost inside of me . . ."  
  
With a gasp I can breathe again, and Idril's eyes are suddenly in front of me, looking at me filled with fright, her face pale and drawn. My gaze turns down, and I see I hold fast both her wrists, that I strain her toward me though she recoils and her fists are tight. Close is her body, damp from the water, and though I am sickened by the fear in her face I do not withdraw, I cannot, for she is warm and bright and pure, and I feel her skin, and if I lean closer her face is almost to mine, and I feel dizzy, blinded, disoriented . . .  
  
It is too bright-- it is burning . . .  
  
I release her, and she nearly falls, stumbling through the water, her hem dropped and soaking. My hands are limp, my shoulders heavy, and I only wish to plunge myself into the stream, into the clear water, but with the quietness of her voice Idril commands me to look at her.  
  
"Maeglin--" She stands with arms at her sides and the water streaming unheeded against her legs, her eyes no longer fearful but grieving dark in her white face. I feel cold.  
  
A moment she takes to gather herself, then she speaks. "You cannot gain by taking from another."  
  
I am afraid, afraid she will leave me, so I also speak. "Can you not gain by giving to another?"  
  
Now she does not look at me, her eyes lowering to the stream. "I cannot give to you what is not yours to have."  
  
I am in the dark again, at the end of a long, black, airless tunnel, and in the crystal-petal hands of Idril is carried away my only light. Again I feel dizzy, I reach for her.  
  
But she does not respond, her hand fastened against her side. "You are a child of night, Maeglin," her face is grave but not unkind, and she steps back. "The sunlight is not for you. Perhaps you should look to the stars."  
  
There is a tightness, a choking in my throat and my words are hoarse and vulgar to my ears. "I will have none but you."  
  
She does not break her gaze, nor does she speak, but I see her, I see that she withdraws from me, and between us is laid a sky that cannot be reached.  
  
While I am still waiting for her to speak, she leaves. 


	3. Part 3

***Disclaimer: Maeglin and Gondolin belong to Tolkien. Hey, the nightingale's mine! Sort of.***  
  
  
Part 3  
  
  
"Again. To the corner of your mouth, my lord," calls the Elf a distance behind me, patience not yet worn from his voice.  
  
I draw the bowstring back farther and the arrow shaft no longer slips from between my fingers but is held steadily until he gives the command.  
  
"Release."  
  
The arrow streaks through the clearing until with a solid clang, it meets with the designated silver plate hanging from the lowest tree branch my instructor could find.  
  
That is, it meets with the very top rim of the designated silver plate, far from the centre circle.  
  
"Again."  
  
I shift my stance on the mossy ground, gloved fingers drawing another arrow from the quiver strung to my back. Laying it against the bow, I peer over my shoulder before raising my arm and drawing the string taut.  
  
"Hold," says the instructor sharply, for an Elf in the dress of a page passes by the edge of the clearing, his face apologetic as he calls to my instructor with news of a summons.  
  
I hold but I do not put the bow down, scanning in and out of the trees spread around me as the page and my instructor converse in low voices. There is a brook nearby, I hear it ripple and bubble against rocks. There is the laughter of elf-maidens, which the birds are silent to listen to, fair as the clear ring of glass bells. I hear the voice of Idril and it drives me mad. But I see nothing, nothing but trees, leaves, fallen branches, insects crawling over stumps.   
  
A bird flies into view with grace, perching on the stump, its head tilted toward the ground. It is a small, dainty bird, brown and cream-coloured. A nightingale, whose song rivals the fairest of Elven voices. They are treasured in Gondolin for they delight the King, and it is forbidden to try to capture one, lest its singing be halted. But this one is silent, for it is day and it seeks only for food.  
  
It is silent, and Idril's voice carries through the clearing, winding slowly around me until I feel I will suffocate.  
  
The arrow flies from my bow and strikes the bird, pinning it neatly to the ground.  
  
The page has abruptly ceased speaking from behind me, and sharply I slant my gaze to where he and my instructor stand, their eyes upon me in shock. My heart pounds wild within me and I do not wince away from their stare.  
  
When I do not speak, my instructor says but quietly, "Maeglin, the king wishes the session cut short so he may talk with you."  
  
A sudden fear washes cold over me, and the bow falls from my hand. The nightingale lays motionless on the forest floor, its unblinking black eye fixed on me, and my knees are weakened so that I must lean to a tree for support.  
  
"I am sorry," I say to the pair of Elves. "My fingers are yet weak. You will not speak of this to Turgon." I hesitate. "I will tell him."  
  
Idril's singing carries on, and I am fearful of when it will stop, for then I will hear the silence of the nightingale. 


	4. Part 4

***Disclaimer: Middle-earth still doesn't belong to me. But I AM making money off this! Kidding, kidding . . .***  
  
  
Part 4  
  
There is unrest in Gondolin at last.  
  
I sit on a balcony of the King's house, pillared and open to the frost-blushed evening. In my hands is an ivory sword-hilt but long my chisel has lain forgotten in my lap. I listen to the voices of Turgon and his council from inside the house, rich and foreign in the High Speech which I am but beginning to learn, and though I do not comprehend but a few words, the low, grave tension settled in Turgon's tone bids me listen a while longer.  
  
He knows where I sit and that I hear, yet he does not speak of it. He will talk with me following the council then, for good or ill. I am untroubled.  
  
Idril passes below me in the garden, and for a moment my attention is diverted. Even she is unnaturally solemn at times now, and in shallow, ice-broken waters her dancing has stilled to slow walks. I watch her hands passing gentle over the snow-dusted mallorn trees as though she wishes to comfort them, her face ever turned away from me to the sky, to the peaks of the Echoriath.  
  
But tenderly the slender braches of the mallorn twist to shield her and she is lost from my sight. I turn my head from the edge of the balcony and Turgon approaches from the door of the house, slowly, the hem of his dark silver cassock gliding against the floor in a motion which likens to water over stone. I am reminded of the hilt still held in my hand and I retrieve my slender chisel, but his eyes are not on me as he stands to my left, hands interwoven behind his back, eyelids heavy with thought.  
  
Guards flank either side of the balcony doorway, but seeing my glance Turgon dismisses them and taking the half-finished hilt from my hand, runs his fingertips against the fine ridges of the carving. He is waiting for me to speak but I hold my silence, discerning as much from his pensive face as I could from perhaps a hundred words.  
  
Then he smiles at me, holding the hilt between his palms. "You grow to great renown in the city," he speaks now in Sindarin, and the words are pallid and flat after hearing the Quenya. "A skilled craftsman."  
  
"A skilled learner," I say, standing to his side. "I am not yet a craftsman."  
  
"And careful in judgement," his conversation is soft, his mind not in it. "One who listens before he speaks. All your instructors speak highly of you, in particular of late the sword-master. He says you are not as powerful as some, but swift and clever of foot, and often times that is the more important skill." He pauses, then inclines his chin a fraction. "In time you will be a creditable addition to Gondolin's council. Soon, I hope."  
  
I study his face, his changing grip on the sword-hilt. "Will Gondolin soon again have need of council?"  
  
Now Turgon looks down at me with a clear and piercing gaze, his slender height emphasized in his tense posture. "The Dagor Bragollach is destroyed. The Siege of Angbad is broken." He observes my face, searching for a response. "The threat of Morgoth draws nigh."  
  
He waits to hear my words, to hear if perhaps I am paying closer attention to matters than he thought or desired.  
  
"There is no threat to the Hidden City," I say blandly. "None shall ever find it."  
  
Turgon relaxes, a faint smile passing again over his mouth. "Perhaps not," he murmurs. "No, there is not, not yet. But there is threat to the Noldor, Maeglin, to other Elves and to Men. If there is counterstrike--" His gaze is sorrowful, his words thick and heavy. "Then Gondolin will join."  
  
He would not have yet given such definite commitment to the council; I am surprised at the quickness of his decision, despite obvious reluctance. "Does the King fear to leave his Hidden Kingdom?" I ask, forgetting myself and allowing a taunt to shadow my voice.  
  
Turgon does not miss it. "The King fears what he will leave his Kingdom to if he should not return," he replies in a voice hard, looking upon me with the easy disapproval of authority. But he softens. "And yes, I fear to leave, I fear to lead my people into the war outside our world. Should I not? It is not cowardice; in time of action I would not balk. But in times of peace, times of thought, it is difficult to think of leaving."  
  
I stand his gaze a moment, then lower my chin in submission. "For that peace we will fight hard, to claim it again."  
  
He looks at me fondly, sadly. "I fear we will, but I do not wish it. Be not eager for battle, Maeglin. No good will come of it." His eyes turn to the sky, seeking stars which have not yet begun to appear. "If Gondolin is lost," he says without difficulty, his face sombre almost to the point of grim. "If we cannot-- and likely we will not-- come back to this beauty of this life, where then, Lomion*, will we go?"  
  
He does not doubt my answer, and I do not doubt he is speaking of that which he has long thought about. "To the West," I say simply. "To the sea."  
  
Still he does not look at me, his stare to the distance, his brow drawn. "You have already sent ships to seek the Path?" I ask.  
  
"They have not yet been sent. But Cirdan the Shipwright builds them now, and when they are completed they will go." For a time he does not speak, and turning my eyes away I see that Idril can be seen again, her step light for she has found a flower, damp and nearly crushed but alive beneath the snow.  
  
"It is such a short time that I have lived in Gondolin," Turgon addresses me quietly. "Such a short time. Life on Middle-earth passes quickly."  
  
"You do not know that you will not have thousands of years yet to live here in the City." But I feel that somehow, he does know. "Do not make history of the present."  
  
"No." He places a hand on my shoulder. "No, I should not. But of one thing am I certain, Maeglin: that Gondolin shall not much longer be the Hidden Kingdom." But he smiles.  
  
There is an ill taste in my mouth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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* Lomion = Quenya for "Son of Twilight"; Aredhel's name for Maeglin 


	5. Part 5

***Disclaimer: The Battle of Unnumbered Tears is property of Tolkien and Co., as are some parts of Huor's speech.***  
  
  
  
Part 5  
Nirnaeth Arnoediad  
  
  
There is screaming, screams of pain, shouts of challenge, calls to rally. There is clanging of sword against sword, sword against shield, pulpy splitting of sword through flesh and blood. My ears ring with the noise until I know not where I am or what I hear-- but there, it is my name, shouted desperately from my left. I turn to the sound, swinging my sword, striking down the orc in my path. But it is too late, the elf lay dead under the orc. I do not know his name, but his face is known to me; it is the face of all who have died on this field, brave, valiant, dignified.  
  
We are all of us here united. Eldar, Edain, both with the intention of defeating Morgoth. But none for the same reason; some fight for glory, some for love, others out of duty or for a sense of purpose. I do not know why it is that I came; I do not know why it is that I still fight when the battle is lost, only that I do.  
  
I jab my short-sword through the goblin rushing me, turn sideways with the other hand to my belt, releasing the slender knife to swipe the throat of an Easterling. The sudden impact of an arrow against my armour no longer startles me. The pain in my forearm I have all but forgotten. I cannot separate sweat and tear, seeking through the rising, falling waves of soldiers for the face of Turgon.  
  
Perhaps it is he that I fight for; my king, my mother's brother, lord and keeper of Gondolin, my city, my world, my life. Perhaps it is for my mother's sake; I would not have her death come to naught. I would not have my life come to naught as hers did with her death. Perhaps it is Eol's choice that I fight, that I will not die, not for him.  
  
Perhaps I simply fight to live. Perhaps I fight to kill.  
  
I press onward, cutting through the lines. I hear the voices of monsters as I draw closer to the front where the battle is fiercest, even after the exhaustion of these six days now past. Turgon is there and I break forth to his side, steeling myself once more for desperate charge.   
  
It is painful, to be back in the darkness, to see the hideous minions of Morgoth ill-masked in torchlight, black, dripping, disfigured. Painful to remember that in darkness I also came to be, like an Orc, bred by evil to fear the sun . . .  
  
I cannot think this, not now, and I sweat heavily, for while my mind wandered a beast broke through and now coils, ready to spring on Turgon. My nerves tense, I snap forward, hacking viciously even as the Warg jumps, cutting his leap short though I am knocked to the ground, his belly caught on the sword point, his snarling teeth near to my throat. An arrow pierces his eye and I roll to my feet though the muscles in my legs tremor, bracing my foot to the Warg's chest to withdraw my sword, heavy with blood.  
  
Turgon is nearer, his face cast grey, his voice heavy when he says, "The battle is lost."  
  
Still we fight on, side by side, and I answer him not.  
  
"I would not have Gondolin also lost," Turgon speaks again, his voice pitching higher, his hand driving harder.  
  
"Gondolin will not be lost," I say. "As long as she has her king."  
  
His eyes are all about him, his sword lingering in the foe dead at his feet. "They still fight on . . ."  
  
"Those who fight now fight only to their own death." I am weary. "There can be no other end this day."  
  
Turgon draws himself up, and raising my head I see the younger of the two leaders of the Edain, he who is called Huor, and his shoulders hang as though weighted though his face is gallant and unflinching, his armour slick with the entrails of his enemies.  
  
His looks at us with keen eyes. "Gondolin retreats," he says without question.  
  
Turgon can but nod, and I feel hateful, angry that I encouraged him to such dishonour.  
  
But Huor does not show spite or scorn, for he smiles, raising his sword once more. "Then some will live to fight another battle. Go now, lord, while time is! For in you lives the last hope of the Eldar, and while Gondolin stands Morgoth shall still know fear in his heart. The forces of Dor-lomin will see that Gondolin withdraws in safety."  
  
Still Turgon does not leave, will not leave his side. "Not long now can Gondolin be hidden; and being discovered it must fall."  
  
Huor replies, "Yet if it stands but a little while, then out of your house shall come the hope of Elves and Men."  
  
He summons the remnant of his battalion, even as Turgon does likewise, and I am left standing in thought, for a strange light has taken the face of Huor. And now before they part he gazes at Turgon, his hand put to the elf's shoulder in a sign of friendship.  
  
When he speaks, though his voice is low, I hear his words. "This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise."   
  
I do not see Turgon's face, for I am quailing with a sudden dread, a wonder, a hope, and a fear, the sum of which I cannot understand.  
  
And blinded for an instant, I see a star and it scalds my eyes.  
  
And before we retreat, I look upon Huor's face and in his eyes see my mind reflected, and if only for his sake, in this moment I would that I had died in battle.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
--- 


	6. Part 6

***Disclaimer: Don't own Gondolin, don't have permission to use it, not making any money. I might kidnap Ecthelion though. He's lovely.***  
  
  
  
Part 6  
  
  
"My Lord Maeglin, I must insist that you stop," the Elf's voice is beginning to show impatience, any strength in the initiation lost in the distance his words travel to reach my ears. "You are in desirous need of refreshment, and the King himself commands you to break fast with him . . ."  
  
I began building the Seventh Gate of Gondolin at the request of the King, and continued it at the King's pace; I laboured some days, studied others, spent long hours conferring with those more experienced at architecture. But for fourteen days now I have worked without rest, without food, without company. I have endured in silence orders from every link in Gondolin's chain of command save Turgon himself, and I will not now step down for the Lord of the Fountains.  
  
Standing taut in a suspension of ropes, I raise my gaze above the steel pillar directly in front of me to the great, rudely-wrought image above it, and selecting the smallest chisel from my belt, recall the designs of the Crown of the Hidden Kingdom to my mind.  
  
It is of little use. The steel swims a river of white before my eyes, and this chisel is unsteady in my hand. When the voice calling to me fades to silence, easily I begin to drift from consciousness.  
  
But it is not wise to wait for Turgon to arrive himself and order me down. I will go, then, of my own accord, and eat with him. It will please him.  
  
I reach down to return the chisel to my belt and my legs tremble violently. I brace both hands against the pillar, leaning my forehead against the cool surface to shield my eyes from the sun.  
  
"Ecthelion," I call hoarsely down to the Elf. "I do not think I can come down of my own power."  
  
"You do not now wish for my assistance, Lord," his voice is quieter. "The King comes."  
  
He is right of course. I have refused assistance from all for a fortnight, rejected the summons of the Lord of Gondolin himself. I cannot now stumble weakly down on the shoulder of a guard to fall at his feet.  
  
"I come down," I say to Ecthelion and there is great weariness in the words even to my own ears. Before I have time to lose the momentary balance I have acquired, I drop to my haunches and slide from the rope, catching my legs around the one beneath and hands held to one I have just left. It is not steady, so I step to the cross-section in the middle, settling my weight against the strength of three ropes before lunging forward to cling to the steel fence. I descend. Unsure of the stability left in my limbs, it is far from the ground that I allow myself to drop, feet hitting the dirt with the heaviness of a Man's.  
  
Ecthelion stands ready with arm extended, his armour blinding in reflection of the sunlight, and though he be far more lordly than I in stature and in character, it is he who stoops to help me to my feet so that I might stand to face my King.  
  
And Turgon is there, approaching, calmly, for his eyes are not on me but on the gate, and he tests his strength against the fence, runs his hand against the smoothness of the pillars, steps back to peer to the tops of the two majestic windowed towers on either end of the gate. A servant stands ready behind him with a silver pitcher and tray of food but he is not motioned to attend me, savagely though I stare at him. Ecthelion stands at attention beside me with eyes fixed to the sky, though oft he tenses when my feet waver.  
  
Idril has followed behind her father, and she too explores the gate. The hollow feeling inside of me expands, for I have not seen her since before the Battle, and I care not that my stare is obvious to all. My eyes crawl over her with a hunger fiercer than I showed the food platter the servant still faithfully bears. The lustre of her dark gold braids casts shame upon the shine of my great steel pillars, the lithe white hand she touches to a cross-bar making the steel appear grey and drab. In an instant Idril reduces the Gate of Steel, the Great Gate of Gondolin, to a dismal work of clumsy hands.  
  
"It is well done, Maeglin," she addresses me and her voice is sweeter than I could have possibly held in recall, like spring water, like dew.  
  
"You do not like it," I make no disguise on my bitterness. "I see it."  
  
And I swoon.  
  
I catch myself on the fence though Ecthelion reaches to help me and even Idril steps forward in concern. Turgon strides to me now, swiftly, and I pull upright enough to meet his eye. Stopping in front of me, the King looks at me with a sharp eye and places a firm hand on my shoulder, and though I think the weight of it will collapse me, I place my hand atop his and bow my head.  
  
He embraces me then. "Come Maeglin. You will refresh yourself now, or die here at our feet."  
  
I draw back, and with Turgon beside me manage to take a step toward the servant with the tray. "The Gate is nearly finished," I say.  
  
"It is splendorous, this gate you have made-- Never have I seen the equal of it. Truly this is the last and greatest gate Gondolin will ever have." Turgon looks on me with pride, his hand still upon my shoulder.  
  
I look back at him and I despise him, I despise him safe within his Hidden Kingdom and I despise the seven mighty gates he has built to keep the world out, to keep us in.  
  
"It is nearly finished," I repeat. "It will have need of a Guard."  
  
"And it shall have one," Turgon declares. "Soldiers and archers in silver and steel armour--"  
  
"They will have need of a captain," I cut him off. "I wish to appoint Ecthelion."  
  
Turgon is surprised, but he does not question. "It shall be done. Now, eat. Eat and come to my house to rest awhile. The Gate will be finished in time."  
  
"I will eat," I say without protest, reaching for the tray as the servant pours from the pitcher into a goblet. "But I will not leave the Gate until it is finished."  
  
Turgon's brow has grown stern and I think that I have made too many bold statements. But Idril passes us, her fingertips touched to her father's arm in a wordless, compassionate request to allow me this. He acquiesces.  
  
They leave, and I dismiss the servant to go with them, retreating against the last pillar of the Gate where I sit and begin to eat. Ecthelion still stands by me, noble and loyal, his eyes alert and shining with his new position though often his gaze strays to me with a strange expression, and I now recognize it to be pity.  
  
"Go," I order sharply. "I have no wish for company."  
  
And I am alone. 


	7. Part 7

***Disclaimer: It's aaaall Tolkien's. The end.***  
  
  
Part 7  
  
  
I sleep.  
  
I drift, sloth, through a pool of sensation. Sunlight and trees, fields of slain bodies, death screams, the faint, high call of an elven lament--- it is dreams. Cold, rigid steel against my head and back--- mail and armour-- no it is the Gate. The light fades, the night of Gondolin reawakened to my eyes. Slumping at the foot of the Gate, finally, I had fallen asleep.  
  
One thing remains from my dreams--- there is a voice.  
  
I breathe in the stillness, but do not move, listening as the duclet notes circle near me, now fading, now rising, in and around the pillars of the Gate until she stands behind me, and all the more hard seems the pillar at my back.  
  
"What do you dream of, Maeglin?" she asks, not so much stopping her song to ask as weaving the words into her breathless music.  
  
"Battle and death," I say, the words fit to the night in which I lay but unsuited to the ears which hear them.  
  
"Dreams of the past, soldier," she is gentle in her chiding, but she does not draw near, and I know she will not, not ever again.  
  
I close my eyes.  
  
"I see a star." I meet her song, throwing memory into my voice with violence. "A new star, rising, alive, moving, bright and beautiful beyond any light before put in the sky . . ."  
  
Her singing dwindles, her voice yielding to mine, and I feel her, hear her breath, know her eyes look upon the stars above us. I do not wish to continue, do not wish to move, yearning the spell upon me to extend to space and time and hold the world around us in this twilit state, the burning of Idril's sunlight hidden under nightcloak, naught but her silverness now seen.  
  
"But it is not beautiful to me," I whisper now, feeling the pain this will bring her. "What I see in dreams comes only by my sleep. This star will come only by my death."  
  
She is silenced, distant, yet only a circle of steel away from me. I dare not move, knowing she will run. My arm I lift, stretched back, arching around the pillar to seek some proof of her existence, that she was not a figment of the starlight. But rather than the hem of her gown, it is her skin that I touch, her shoulder, and I am startled by the coldness of my fingers. She sits also, then.  
  
"Celebrindal," I say, for at night she is truly silverfoot, silver maiden, bereft of the worshipful terribleness of day. "How many tears did you let fall when it was the Nirnaeth?"  
  
"Arnoediad," she says softly. "I did not count, Maeglin,"  
  
"I would," I say, and my fingers lift from her shoulder lest she move it, "that you would grant me one."  
  
"You have one," she says. "For each day, each word, each thought that has brought you pain."  
  
"I could not have you grieve so, my lady, for surely it would collapse my spirit," my voice is low, the words a pain to my throat. "I must have a smile, a word, a song, matched to each tear, so I would not drown." I reach again, arm sliding against the smooth white steel, fingertips almost brushing her throat. I lean my head against the pillar.  
  
"I can give you naught but tears, Maeglin," she whispers. "Tears and silence."  
  
I can almost feel her. "Tears to blind me," I say bitterly. "Silence to fill my throat and still my breathing."  
  
"Tears to clean your wounds," says she. "Silence to learn from you."  
  
Now my arm drops, my hand pressed to her ribcage, feeling the expansion of her breath, the breath that gives me life. "Learn this," I speak quickly, harshly, for short is time before she flies. "The sun is an inconstant maiden, uncertain in herself and of the world, so that the clouds cover her, and the sky falls over her. Night always comes, and she, her glorious, yellow heart, submits to it."  
  
Her breath is caught fast now, and she banks to escape my hand, springing for flight, but I am to my feet, turned, and she runs but to me, our bodies closed in,and my hands are fastening in her hair, and I am scared to breathe, scared to blink, scared to let go, angry at my brutality, angry at her fastness, hungry for her.  
  
I hold her, I breathe her, feel her heart beat, feel mine answer in turn.  
  
"Maeglin," she cries out, and I see her eyes, burning through the veil of night, bright and white-lit. "Why do you not hear me? Do you not know that it is this I cannot give you? It is this," her voice is broken now, almost to a weep. "It is this. It is my heart. It is my life. It is me."  
  
"You do not give it," I breathe, I touch her her arms, her brow, her hair. "I take it."  
  
"You cannot!" Her voice is high and sharp, ringing in my ears and though I am dizzy with the force, with the sound, I do not heed her.  
  
"You do not speak to me as such," I say quietly, my fingers clenching tighter. "I am not your subject."  
  
"But are you my friend," she speaks softer but she does not plead, her chin raised and unquivering. "Are you my kinsman, my cousin? Are you indeed better than Eol, stealing what woman you would by deceptive speech and force--"  
  
I throw her away in an abrupt surge of hatred. She stumbles back in silence, her eyes not blinking, her face stretched in suprise, falling still in the moonlight.  
  
"You do not speak to me as such," I whisper. 


	8. Part 8

***Disclaimer: Nothing on or in Middle-Earth belongs to me. But I wouldn't mind owning Pippin, the silly singing elves in The Hobbit, the talking fox near the beginning of FOTR, and that cleft in Aragorn's chin.***  
  
  
Part 8  
  
I lower the back of my hand near to the sheet of silver flattened in front of me, finding it has cooled. Selecting a small hammer from the work table behind me, I begin to tap lightly on the malleable metal.  
  
So easily it is shaped. How interesting that such a marvelous piece of nature, its making as of yet unduplicated by any hand on Middle-Earth, after it is broken down and reforged and shaped by my hands, becomes a work of my own. For that is how others see it, forgetting its pre-existence. The silver that Maeglin wrought.  
  
So easily it becomes mine.  
  
Ecthelion stands near and watches with interest. I did not request his company. He does not offer to relieve me of it. So I do not offer him a seat.  
  
"An honour to have my armour forged by the sister-son of the King," he is saying now, more for the peaceable purpose of smoothing my ego than to begin an actual conversation. "For even he speaks highly of your skills."  
  
"Even he," I repeat, the next tap of my hammer striking harder than I intended. "Perhaps only he."  
  
I am relieved-- though admittedly also somewhat disappointed-- that Ecthelion does not continue his line of political flattery and reassure me of my far-reaching repute. He merely turns his eyes from the silver to my face, studying me.   
  
"Indeed, you are held in the King's favour," is his neutral observation.  
  
More words wait in my mouth but I simply bend closer to my work, frowning to keep my lips together. It will not do me good to speak too freely to one of Turgon's lords. It will not do me good to speak too freely to anyone.  
  
But I say, "Perhaps his favour is too easily won."  
  
Ecthelion holds his bland face, even whilst mine turns abruptly to scowl, and I pound violently against the silver.  
  
"Perhaps," the Lord of the Fountains replies. "But if that be so, then let me say that it is also easily lost. It is keeping his favour wherein lies the task. Do not think that your blood will blind Turgon to your wrongs."  
  
This is not the topic in which my mind is immersed, but interesting nonetheless. I lift an eyebrow to peer up at him. "Does my lord speak of a particular wrong?"  
  
"I do not," his voice continues to be pleasant.  
  
I return to a frown, running a fingertip against the beaten silver, the subtle beginnings of a breastplate taking shape. "Then you seek to reassure me of my worth? Do not allow yourself the trouble. I have no doubts concerning the genuinity nor the longitivity of the King's affection."  
  
"Then it is the favour of another which troubles you."  
  
Perhaps it is merely your proximity that troubles me, Lord of Many Questions.  
  
His face is still the portrait of disinterest, and my earlier annoyance turns to blatant suspicion. Too many times have I allowed Ecthelion to observe me; too often have I spoken to him. He begins to see too much.  
  
"I know not of what you speak," I say to him firmly, my attention in full upon the bending of the armour. "There is much in the world that troubles me. Favour with others is among the least of my concerns and desires. Rather like companionship."  
  
Ecthelion is not put off by my words, and rather seems amused by them, though he does hold his tongue. And because he retains his silence and resumes regarding my hands with an undulled curiosity, I allow him to stay, albeit grudgingly for he has offset my concentration and I must now repair a dent in the breastplate.  
  
Finally, he breaks his silence.  
  
"I know of what and whom it is that so greatly torments you," his voice is yet quiet, almost gentle. "And though I am perhaps not what you would seek in an advisor, I have only these words for comfort: that even this, in time, shall pass you by and leave naught but a memory of faint regret."  
  
There is a solid coldness in the pit of my stomach, for I perceive in the expression of his eyes that he speaks truth and has indeed discovered the secret of my heart.  
  
"Now it is you that knows not of what you speak," I respond in a voice of equal softness.  
  
"I speak as one who has known the burden."  
  
"There are none who have known this burden."  
  
He keeps quiet a moment, and the clear ringing of the silver is all the sound that passes between us.  
  
"You are called Sharp Glance," Ecthelion's voice is again flat, impartial. "Does the glance extend to yourself?"  
  
Blackness-- blood-- I cannot breathe!-- flame-- burning-- I cannot see!-- a star-- a star-- a star---  
  
I mask my gasp against my cloak, twisted right to reach to my table of tools.   
  
My breath is shallow, so that I speak fast. "Be still Ecthelion, or your breastplate shall become a sword with which I will cleave your tongue."  
  
He is quiet again, and the moments pass from tension to peace. But my work now is slower, my hands unsteady, and this time it is I who speak first.  
  
"I was also called Lomion, in the Quenya, by my mother," I say to him, quietly. "Do you know the meaning of it?"  
  
The Lord of Gondolin nods, speaks hesitantly. "Son of Twilight."  
  
I return his nod, my gaze on his face. "Do you believe in the prophetic gift of mother-names?"  
  
He speaks even more hesitantly now. "I have too often seen it proved to disbelieve it."  
  
"Then you understand some of the occupation of my mind," my tone of speaking is now dark. "For there are few with the gift of interpreting these names. Understanding comes only with fulfillment."  
  
He does not shy from my stare, his eyes hooded in thought. "Perhaps that which is called understanding comes only because it is sought. That which is looked for too often exists only because of the looking."  
  
I gaze at him, his fair brow drawn in thought, pointed chin tilting to the side, and I wonder at his reasoning. It troubles me, though I cannot guess why.  
  
"No matter the reason of its existence," I say. "Does it not still exist?"  
  
He blinks, slowly. "It does."  
  
Our eyes are locked, and I wonder which it is that truly has the Sharp Glance.  
  
I turn from him. "And perhaps my mother had no thought of prophecy. Perhaps I am named only for the place of my birth, for truly Nan Elmoth knew nothing but night."  
  
"Yes," says Ecthelion. "Perhaps."  
  
I know that neither of us believe it. 


	9. Part 9

**Disclaimer: No! I own it all! It's all mine! Aaahahahaha.... Blech. Gondolin, Maeglin, and Elemmakil belong to Tolkien. Lothelen is mine (yahoo, that's a real treat.) Feel free to use her if ya want to, as long as I can read the story.**  
  
  
  
Part 9  
  
  
Elemmakil stands across from me, sword in hand. He is lightly armoured, simply clad, his long black hair tied back with a single band. We stand in a vast room, empty but for the two of us, and the walls are unending green marble, the floor thinly padded with mats of woven leaves.  
  
His sword-arm is the only part of his body that moves, his weight lightly balanced on the balls of his feet, his eyes not moving from my face. He no longer calls commands or timing, but tests me, advancing little by little.  
  
"Your heart is not today with us, Master Maeglin," He observes the listless response of my sword to his swift, dexterous thrusts.  
  
"I grow tired of swordplay," I say, though it was I who arranged the meet, for my sword is newly-forged and called to be tested.  
  
Eyes hardening, Elemmakil at last signals a cease to the duel, lowering his sword to his side. "Swords are not used for play," he speaks without fear, omitting my title of courtesy. "Swords are used to fight, and to kill. We do not play at such things. If it is play you seek, you should learn from a harpist."  
  
I return his gaze evenly, hefting the smooth ivory handle in my palm, watching the flicker of the silver-white blade. I know that for all his harsh words he does not resent me-- at times I see that he is glad of me, indeed takes pleasure in my company. But he mistrusts my skill with the sword, for he feels that the ease with which I attained it leaves me with little regard for the burden of danger which accompanies it.  
  
He is right, for I care little.  
  
I swing the blade abruptly, and it travels in a fluid arc toward his throat, a lethally unprotected area avoided in practice. Elemmakil is startled, his pace backward uneven, his own sword brought up in guard in what is nearly too late a response. The steel blades clash and we test each other's strength. For once his eyes are not on me but on the tremulous contact of our swords.  
  
We are near to evenly matched in a duel; in pure arm strength, he has the advantage. I lower my sword and Elemmakil looks at me, his breath even, his cheek not flushed.  
  
"Then we are finished," he states quietly after a moment, and I know he does not only speak of this afternoon.  
  
"We are," I reply with a nod of dismissal, pretending to misunderstand him, and turn from him. Though in turning I see a bright-eyed face at the door, I ignore it, sheathing my sword. Elemmakil's feet travel heavily to the doorway, speaking words that are quiet and stern, indiscernible. I hear no reply. My back to the door, I unclasp my thin breastplate, and in Elemmakil's silence hear a lighter foot enter the room behind me.  
  
I turn my head to see, and it is a elf-maiden, familiar though I do not know her name. She is small of limb, delicately-boned, her hair dark but not quite black, and it is held behind her back, a rapid waterfall of waves. She wavers in approaching, her face shy to meet my eyes.  
  
"I wished to see your sword," she finally offers, clasping slim, translucent hands behind her, pointed chin raising in the triumph of speech. An unseen smile dents her cheek.  
  
Wordlessly I hold it out for her to see and she forgets her timidity to stroke the hilt in fascination, spreading her fingers over the carving of the golden vessel of Vasa. Her hand moves to the blade, her fingertip pressed to its edge.  
  
"Will you not hold it?" I ask, amused that she steps back at my own stride forward.  
  
"I do not dare," she laughs.   
  
"It is not heavy." I place it in her open hand, and for a moment, she is clumsy with it.  
  
"My father will not teach me how to use the sword," she says by way of apology. Then her fingers contour the handle and she steps sideways, her arm lifting. Experimentally she turns her wrist, her face one of delight.  
  
She is Elemmakil's daughter, then. "Why does he not?" I move behind her, watching her careful dips in the air.  
  
"Oh." The sword is unsteady in her hand, so she wraps the other around the handle also. "He fears the aggression that is brought out in training." Her eyes turn to me in curiosity as I move away, fetching a plain practice sword from the wall. "He does not wish for me to think of battle."  
  
"You need not." I come to rest in front of her, one leg bending, hand twirling the light sword over my head as I assume a severe countenance reminiscent of Elemmakil's earlier solemnity. She laughs. "Swordsmanship is an art. You like to admire that which pleases your eyes, do you not?"  
  
I smile, for her eyes are not on the sword, but on my face.  
  
"I will teach you."  
  
~*~  
  
She springs forward, her skirts held in one hand, my sword in the other, eyes alight and hair swinging behind her. I move to strike, and she blocks it, the impact sending her backward a pace.  
  
"Parry. Feint. Thrust. Use your wrist."  
  
"Stop! You confuse me."  
  
Blinking, I pause, and she jabs neatly into the centre of my armour.  
  
"There," she says, her face quite serious. "Now, if you would only hold still the entire time . . ."  
  
I swing at her and she stumbles away, her mouth spilling laughter as she feebly raises her sword to guard. Our blades meet, but I withdraw and swing again, and again, and helplessly she begins to back against the wall, her fair brow glistening. But when her back touches the marble, she lunges.  
  
I step aside so that the blow misses, but I am impressed. "What is your name?" I ask.  
  
Her breath is heavy, her voice still light as she steers her sword-point toward me. "Lothelen.*"  
  
I bat her blade away, smiling. "You are no glass flower. I shall have to rename you."  
  
"And what would my lord have me called instead?" She has taken a shy air again, her attack faltering, her eyes peering up at me through a black lace of lashes.  
  
"Wen-rohir," I say. "Knight maiden." And I switch to the offensive, striking relentlessly, above her, at her side, pressing forward till our blades meet in one final, solid clatter between our perspiring faces.  
  
It is eerily similar to the struggle I just had with her father. This time, however, I have the advantage.  
  
Slowly, I ease my full strength against the sword, so her blade drops lower, and lower, until it is at her waist. But she does not withdraw, her eyes fixed in mine, and I see they are dark grey, wide, starry. Her arm trembles, her lips part, her breath is warm against my neck.  
  
And it is I who release. Her blade plunges downward, but she catches herself, sliding a foot in front of her, chin lifting to look at me as I sheathe the sword I hold.  
  
"Well done," I comment softly. "And what else would the maiden be taught?"  
  
Her eyes flicker the length of my face and she does not retreat, arm hanging limp at her side. "To judge wisely. To speak truthfully. To love wholly. To hold a sword properly."  
  
I reach for her wrists. "To judge wisely, do not judge at all; believe only fact which you see and hear and know." My fingertips slide down her hands. "If you fear to speak truth, do not speak." Clasping a hand over each of hers, I ease them slightly apart, settling against the grooves of the hilt. "To love," I am whispering now. "Love only once, and do not save any part of your being for another, not even yourself."  
  
I touch her.  
  
My fingers lay gently against the hollow of her pale throat, my palm flattening against the soft skin stretching to her bosom. Her breasts rise and fall with rapid breath, her pulse leaping against my fingertips, but she does not move. I reach higher, trace her neck, push back her thick tresses to expose a shoulder, and still she moves not, her eyelids lowering, her cheekbones flushed, her mouth parted. Her eyes are dark and liquid, her face turned up to mine.  
  
Always I seek for Celebrindal's light, to encompass me, to banish the darkness inside.  
  
Perhaps once I will let the darkness out to swallow light.  
  
My fingers curl tightly over her shoulder. Her eyes are now closed, her lips seeking mine. I bend my head, taste her breath. Then in sudden urgency, I kiss her. Her lips are moist, warm, supple to my violent ravaging, her eyelashes a delicate brush on my cheek. I frame her neck with both hands, stroke down to her collarbone and up again to her jaw. One hand reaches behind her, down the ridges of her spine, and her body is trembling. My lips leave hers, travelling her skin, and the erratic pulse of her heartbeat intoxicates me for I know she is frightened.  
  
My hands are to her hips now, and her head is fallen back. She gasps. "Maeglin--"  
  
I look up and there is a shadow fallen across her face. I blink, but it does not leave. My hands grow rougher, my mouth returned to hers in breath-sucking ravishes. I taste her, taste her fear of me, her awe, her submission and it maddens me more. My hand is braced against the back of her skull, the other seizing her closer, closer, closer, so I feel her, I feel her growing cold and dark under my passion . . .  
  
The shadow is not on her face. It is in my eyes.  
  
She falls against the wall when I let go, her eyes dazed, and her face is not angry but confused as she looks up at me, a child, a maiden, a half-lit star facing night sky for the first time.  
  
"Glass flower," my voice is hoarse, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision. She pulls upright, her brow narrowed. "You fight well; but you are yet too fragile for life."  
  
"You speak in riddles," Lothelen's chin is lowered, her hair hanging as a curtain against her face, her voice quiet and uncertain.  
  
"I live in riddles," is my reply. I reach unsteadily for my sword, but thinking again, leave it for her.  
  
"Do you not give an apology?" she asks suddenly.  
  
I look at her, my hands hanging empty, and my mouth feels dry. "No."  
  
"And I do not wish one." She stares at me for a moment, then nods her head. "You have my leave to go," she speaks with dignity, stepping back from me, and I wonder at the change until her voice falls small again before I turn. "Looking at you pleased me, Maeglin," she says, "but your touch frightened me."  
  
I close my eyes, for I do not wish to look at her. "For that, I am sorry."  
  
"Are you?" she asks.  
  
I open my eyes and shiver. "No."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
*Lothelen --- "Loth" = flower, "hele" = gass; I'm faaar from being fluent in Sindarin, so the word order or suffix may be wrong. Corrections, as always, are welcome. 


	10. Part 10

***Disclaimer: Tuor's not mine either.***  
  
  
  
Part 10  
  
  
By mid-morning we began hearing reports, murmurs, rumours that someone had passed through the First Gate. This was a rare event, but not unheard of. We knew not the significance, could only guess at what fuelled the interest. But more news reached the King soon after-- it was not one of the Gondolindrim. No more than this fact could be told. Troubled, Turgon summoned his counsellors to court, even Idril and I, she sitting to his left, I standing at his right. But on his throne he does not speak, his eyes turned to the floor, his brow set in straight lines of thought.  
  
The court is held in delicate suspension. Elves stand against walls, below stairs, some afraid to meet eyes, others conferring openly. Yet no voice is raised above a murmur, no foot stirs. The minstrel is in corner silent, though Turgon did not command him to be so. I listen for the sound of foot falls that would announce the approach of further news.  
  
Only Idril is not disturbed, for she talks quietly to her father, pours him wine, bids him drink, smiles and even passes without care to the window to gaze upon gossamer mounds of snow topping tree and hill.  
  
I wish to walk with her, but I do not. Even now at the thought my skin grows clammy, my breath burns, and I do not dare to even look at face or limb of her lest the thoughts return to me, the dark desire, the loathing that weaves itself into my love song, remembrance of Lothelen when it took but a moment to submit to shadow passion in complete . . . But in knowing that it is there my fear increases, and feeding on the fear the desire increases, and I am dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, swallowed within myself . . .  
  
"Then it has happened," Turgon speaks softly so that only I hear him. "I am betrayed."  
  
I turn from Idril. My eyes crawl his face, wild, fearing he has read my heart in my expression, remorse filling my gut for he is my mother's brother, he is my king, but fear spreading malice to my hands, for he controls my fate and keeps to himself that by which my dark world is lit.  
  
But he speaks only of the stranger.  
  
"Do you know this?" I hear myself say.  
  
There are footsteps.  
  
The page raises his hand as he enters the room, and seems to catch each of us by the throat with the simple gesture, for abruptly there is utter stillness. Idril returns to her father's side and I peer at her over Turgon's head. She meets my gaze pensively, for we are both disturbed by Turgon's wordless, distant expression. But I find myself more troubled that she must worry, and though I long to reassure her I have no means of doing so, no knowledge of a gesture that she would not misinterpret. I cannot touch her. I dare not speak. In frustration I stare at her, until she looks away, and I am left again with the hollow feeling that with every attempt to breach the barrier between us I merely build it wider. But what can be built can also be destroyed. Unless it destroys those who attempt it.  
  
The three of us wait as the page bows, approaches, his face wary with the news he must tell.   
  
The stranger is a Man, brought to Gondolin by one of our own.  
  
"They will let him pass through the gates," Turgon says quietly, evenly. "He wears the armour from Vinyamar."  
  
The pages bows again, leaves, and I see he has understanding. I do not.  
  
"My Lord?" I ask, and Turgon looks on me.  
  
"It is as I spoke to you once," he says. "Peril draws nigh to Gondolin. And a messenger comes from Nevrast."  
  
The words bring a chill to me, but I know not if it is because of his ominous tone or that Idril looks at me when he speaks the word "peril."  
  
  
)*(  
  
The trumpets sound.  
  
From the towers of the Great Gate they resound, circling the walls of the Echoriath, distant, clear, proud. For a few moments the City is held silent. Then from the city walls is issued an answer, so that our ears vibrate with the clamour.  
  
When the last echoes fade, and the gate of the King's house opens, Turgon rises from the throne. He looks out over the court and he is tall, tallest of the Children of World save Thingol, and his eyes pierce with the light of Aman. He is lordly in glimmering robes, gold and white sword belted to his side, the king-helm aloft on his brow.  
  
But he steps down to greet the stranger.  
  
I stay aside the throne.  
  
Now they enter, the mail of the Guard flashing bright, and in their midst is a tall figure, cloaked in a grey mist which is not penetrated by the light. By his side is an Elf captain, Voronwe Aranwion who sought the West, and on his right marches Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountains, Warden of the Great Gate, but the stranger is not eclipsed by their presence. All look upon him with awe, for they all have forgotten that he is just a Man, all but I.  
  
"You have come to the Hidden Kingdom," Turgon speaks slowly, gravely. "And now you will learn its names." His voice raises, deep and grand. "I welcome you to Ondolinde, the Rock of the Music of Water. To Gondobar, City of Stone, Gondothlimbar, City of the Dwellers in Stone, Gondolin, Stone of Song. To Gwarestrin, the Tower of the Guard, Gar Thurion, the Secret Place, and to Loth-a-ladwen, the Lily of the Plain." He pauses a moment, the ringing of his voice fading slowly in the stone halls. "You have entered through the seven gates to stand in the House of Turgon before the Lord of Gondolin," he says at last. "Will you now speak?"  
  
And the stranger's cloak diminishes, revealing a man tall and strong, and so noble is his countenance that even I grow doubtful of his mortality. His head is golden, and upon it is the steel helm which Turgon had fashioned, wrought with wings and now adorned with swan feathers. He is clad in a hauberk of untarnished silver, and bears the figure of a swan on a great blue and white shield.  
  
He speaks in a voice so rich with authority and virtue that all listen and wish to obey it. "Yes, I will speak, for I am Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador, and I bring warning from Ulmo, Lord of the Waters to you, Turgon, and the people of Gondolin. I bring a warning that the Curse of Mandos now hastens to its fulfilment, when all the works of the Noldor shall perish. I bid you to depart, and abandon this fair and mighty city that you have built, and go down Sirion to the sea."  
  
Tuor's eyes are sharp and bright, and in the silence which follows his speech he turns his gaze from Turgon. I meet his eyes in curiosity, studying this Man, this mere Man, who has delivered the errand of a Vala to a hidden Elf-King, commanding that he leave the glorious kingdom which has been his home for nearly four hundred years. Does he not fear for his fate? Is he so confident that we will believe the words of his mouth? Does he know that he shall never leave this place should the King choose not to listen to his warning, even unto its destruction?  
  
I see that he does know all this, and I fear what strength lies in the mortal that he takes such a task.  
  
His face is fair indeed and it is with a slight nod that Tuor takes his gaze from mine, looking now to the other side of the throne where Idril sits. He glances upon her and on his face is born a dawn beautiful and awful to behold. For his eyes have seen few women, and now they will see none but her forever.  
  
For a moment I am moved to pity, for though I do not turn I know that Idril in kindness will smile at this Man, and then his doom shall be sealed even as mine is, for silver maiden she will stay, belonging to none but the sky and the water which hold her brightness without fear.  
  
Turgon stands with his face to no one, his head held high, his gaze fixed through the glass pane of a window, and his hands are clasped tightly behind his back. The words of Tuor were not unexpected; in his heart, he has heard them many times, has known that one day he must leave this place. But to hear his deepest sorrow voiced by one who knows no regard for Gondolin, for what he, Turgon, must leave, only stirs his spirit to a grief near anger.  
  
In his pride of Gondolin is Turgon's greatest weakness, and it is now brought to test.  
  
The King pivots round, sweeps his gaze across the court to rest on Tuor. "If these are Gondolin's last days," he says. "Then stay you awhile, and come to know this city before memory is all that is left of her." Saying no more, Turgon leaves the throne room, and I am left ill at ease, for if Turgon does not heed the Lord of the Waters, then who indeed can sway his mind and what price shall it cost him? 


	11. Part 11

Part 11  
  
  
The Tower of the King. The pride of the Gondolodrim, for it houses the greatest and most beautiful works of Turgon other than the Gates of Gondolin. Set high on a pillared arcade, the Tower is built of white marble, the courts inlaid with ivory fountains carved high to spill clear, foaming water. And amidst the fountains are Glingal and Belthil, trees of gold and silver made in memory of the Two Trees of Valinor.   
  
It is by Glingal that I sit, but I find no warmth in the glow of the gold, no pleasure in the brilliance of topaz and diamonds. I wonder, once, if I would find more satisfaction in the Tree had I wrought it myself.  
  
But I begin to doubt the joy of possession, for with it comes the cost of dispossession.  
  
Tuor walks among the fountains. He is not yet aware of my presence, for I am all but hidden by the rise of a fountain bowl, but through the streaming curtain of water I watch him. Without the cloak of Ulmo and the Vala's words in his mouth, Tuor appears of less stature and might, his speech more plain; and yet his prescence is not dimmed by this lack, his voice no less potent for its homelier words. It is the careful measurement of each step that speaks strength, the compelling truth in his speech which delights the ear, a purpose and the will to carry it out which lights his eye.  
  
He seeks something. I do not call out. He will find me.  
  
I stretch my legs so that the loose grey material of my trousers rustles against the smooth floor before folding them once more underneath me, fixing my gaze on the golden trunk of Glingal as though I hope to see her face blooming in the false fruits of gemstones. But finding nothing I look instead to the softly rippling pool in the basin beside me, and my face in reflection is distorted, dark eyes that flicker rapidly, set deep beneath fair brow, pointed chin wavering as though in attempt to contain a great grief.  
  
When Tuor's reflection appears beside mine, I see that the pool is still.  
  
"Master Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador," I greet him coolly. "How do you fare in the City?"  
  
He stands a respectful distance from the Trees when I turn round. The Messenger of Ulmo is clad in a plain leather jerkin, his flaxen hair loose against broad, lean shoulders, beard trimmed neatly on his face, with eyes of a fair and bright blue unfamiliar to me, and in the humble simplicity of his demeanor appears again the unaffected dignity of a lord, a king.  
  
It is maddening, for I am as engaged by it as the simplest maiden.  
  
"I feel a stranger," Tuor replies to my inquisition. "An oddity."  
  
"You are," I counter. "The last to pass through the Gates who was not of the Gondolodrim were your father and his brother, who stayed not long. The last to come to dwell here was myself, and that is many years in the past."  
  
He looks upon me in warmth now, as though we are kindred. "Then I am not alone. From whence came you to this place?"  
  
From the Dark Elf and the White Lady. From a black night under bright stars. From the lust of my father and the pride of my mother. Out from the grudge-bound chains of Eol and into the fear-built walls of Gondolin.  
  
"A forest not far, near to Doriath," is my answer. "Gondolin was my mother's home, and for her sake I was accepted."  
  
Tuor's face is to the Trees, and the sunlight casts both gold and silver on his face so that he appears as a noble statue carved of steel. Yet his eyes look not at the precious metals, his brow low as though in troubled thought, and now he turns to the fountain, listening in silence to the gentle rush of the water.  
  
"Do you seek answers in the water?" I ask quietly, tilting my head to study him.  
  
His mouth crooks faintly to a smile. "I hear but the echo of my questions. Still, I find solace in the sound. The sea shall never speak ill to me."  
  
"And you fear that Turgon will."  
  
Tuor sinks to the floor, legs folding as mine though his head leans against the ivory fountain bowl. "He does not speak of the Message. With each day that passes Ulmo's words grow dim in his mind, for they stand pale against his own: Ondolinde, Loth-a-ladwen." The son of Huor looks now to the Trees, the Fountains of the Tower. "I fear his devotion to this Kingdom."  
  
My palms flatten against the cold marble floor. "Why do you fear? Are you not granted the privilege to leave? You need not be encompassed in our destruction."  
  
"I fear," says he, eyes meeting mine, "because I too begin to feel the hold of this City and the Lady which lights it."  
  
My mouth feels dry, my body not stirring. "Truly the hold of Gondolin is not in its stones."  
  
So perhaps it is Idril that lights his eye.  
  
Why do mine only grow darker?  
  
"And you, my lord," says Tuor with a smile. "What is it that you ponder, and does the fountain answer you?"  
  
"I do not ask anything of it." I arch my neck, chin lowering and raising again to the white pillars above us. "I only reflect. Today I am lord in title; tomorrow I take the charge and duty of a lord of a House of Gondolin. A House that is, as of yet, unnamed."  
  
Tuor peers at me. "What is your function at present?"  
  
"A blacksmith." I pause. "But long have I been away from the smithy. Now my place is delving into the dark places of Amon Gwareth, burrowing deeper and deeper for such jewels and metals as I have not yet the skill to work. I am a miner, a dweller underground."  
  
A moment, and I find myself near to smiling though inside I churn with repulsion. "I shall be Lord of the House of the Mole."  
  
Tuor's face breaks into mirth, but I lift an eyebrow. "I do not jest, Master Tuor."  
  
"Nor do I," he replies, extending his hand. "I approve."  
  
I take his hand and we rise to our feet, stepping back though our are eyes are still met in farewell. Without thought I incline my head in deference.  
  
Tuor returns the motion. Even bowed, his golden head seems loftier than mine.  
  
"I will speak to Turgon on your behalf," I say to him.  
  
"Then you will set my mind at ease," speaks Tuor with a solemn trust.  
  
I watch him leave, as I watched him come, and I wonder if Turgon does not indeed fear this Man, for his power is truly not in strength or words, but in his unsullied spirit which can only inspire love, trust, allegiance.  
  
But this power is held only by his presence.  
  
I sit alone by Glingal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_ 


	12. Part 12

***Disclaimer: Whew, almost forgot about these things. La la la, Gondolin and Maeglin aren't mine. Ecthelion, however, I have stolen to be my muse. Unfortunately, he comes with Gothmog the Balrog stuck on his helmet, and if you don't think that's inconvenient, you've been smoking too much pipe-weed.***  
  
  
Part 12  
  
  
  
"Why do you hide yourself inside the earth?"  
  
The voice startles me, for my back is to the tunnel opening and I see nothing but cracked earth and stone, illuminated blue by a Feanorian lamp set high on a rocky shelf. Crouched on my haunches, I drive the wedge more firmly into the loosed boulder and shoot a glance over my shoulder. Despite the dim light I am easily able to discern silver mail, grey breeches, the gleam of a diamond-set helm held under arm. Setting down my axe, I turn my chin and distinguish the features of Ecthelion, dark hair swinging loose over his shoulder as he ducks through the black cave and into the glow of the lamp.  
  
"Yet I think the chamber suits you well, Lord of the Mole-people," he declares in a hearty voice, standing tall once more under the raised ceiling of my newest cavern.  
  
I am disconcerted, for the lonely feeling which had receded in me the deeper I delved into the rock of Amon Gwareth now swells and ebbs in rapid succession at the sight of him, so glad am I to see his face. Yet I wish not for conversation, desiring only a presence to relieve my solitude. And I do not recall Ecthelion for his silence.  
  
"And you not at all, Lord of the Fountains," I return, standing so that I may lower the lamp nearer to the stone I am hewing. "Take care that you do not blacken your silver."  
  
" 'Twould not be the first time." Ecthelion crouches at a right angle to me, his bright gaze swift to fasten upon my hands as I take up my pick and axe once more. Again a peculiar sensation of relief and pleasure runs through me, nauseating in its unfamiliarity.  
  
"And you do not answer my question," he adds in reminder, though he does not look to my face.  
  
"Then first answer mine." Lightly, I begin to split apart the rock. "Why do you come here?"  
  
"To speak with you," he answers in bland voice, but is quick to elaborate. Perhaps at last he grows familiar with the length of my patience for evasive speech-- strange that it is so, for that is the common path of my tongue. "The King calls a council of the Houses of Gondolin," he continues, head slanting at my precise direction of the wedge. "He wishes to speak regarding Tuor and the Message of Ulmo."  
  
I release my tools, rubbing palms against the dirt to dissipate moisture. "He wishes to speak, but will he listen?"  
  
"That also is his objective." Ecthelion leans back, loosely clasping hands between his knees. "Why? Has the dumb Mole learned speech? Will you offer opinion?"  
  
"I may. I may not," I respond carelessly. "It depends upon the words of the other lords."  
  
It is an unspoken request, but the elf-lord does not miss it, his merry gaze turning pensive, his eyes reflecting rather than penetrating. "When Tuor was brought before me," he says after a short pause, his voice softer. "I did not at first believe him to be a Man. He seemed a living glass filled with cloud and water and fire, cloaked by visions I still do not understand, yet am haunted by. Visions of desolate ruin, and at the same time of hope and life, and both were held in the hands of a powerful essence, though I could not deem to say if it was the same power under both. And they seemed to chase around each other in confusion, the ruin and the hope, and I wondered if the presence indeed held the happenings or only sought to." He speaks not for a moment, and I realize my hands are still. "He spoke in a voice that came not from his throat but from the earth, the sky, the sea, and he knew me by name though I told him not my title.  
  
"I do not know what will become of Gondolin," Ecthelion addresses me now, gravely. "But I do not doubt that Tuor son of Huor came here not of his own will but that of Ulmo, Lord of the Waters. And for that, he should be heeded."  
  
I do not reply, but I cannot take my eyes from the faint luminance of his fair face, for I do not comprehend such unquestioning faith. He has not met with Ulmo, nor have I. What reason have we to put trust in this Vala? He is but a concept, a vague idea of power and majesty. Turgon claims it was this Lord of the Waters who led him to the hidden valley of Tumladen where we now stand, but who can disprove it? My heart would that I believe my king, and even Ecthelion, one whom I would almost call my friend. But I put trust in my eyes, for they are impartial and fail me not.   
  
My heart is not worthy of such trust.  
  
"What thinks Turgon's sister-son of this Messenger?" Ecthelion now asks, his glance again keen.  
  
My hands rest on the rough stone boulder, my thoughts on my conversation with Tuor in the Tower of the King. "I think," I reply slowly, "that I do not like that such power is placed in a single Man."  
  
Ecthelion is surprised. "Your mistrust is in his power? Do you then disapprove of rulers, of kings, of yourself as a lord to have power over others?"  
  
He does not understand. "That is power over matter, over the circumstance of a life." I stare at my hands, interlacing the fingers. "Tuor's command is of the heart. It rests ill with me, for in the heart is the rule of the spirit, and that is not for another to intervene with." I hesitate. "He is . . . but a mortal. Should we place our hearts in hands that will fall? Should we indeed give such dominion to any other than ourselves?"  
  
The face of the Lord of the Fountains is still, his eyes unblinking. "Tell me, Lomion," he says softly. "Is your heart your own?"  
  
He knows the answer.  
  
"And would you have it for your own, if you could? Would you take back such a gift, to end both the deep grief and immeasurable joy of the freedom in giving it?"  
  
Yes.  
  
A cold tremor slinks through my body. Yes, I would, in the flash of eye, in a heartbeat, in the passage of a thought. I would take my heart, red and black, blistered and unwhole, from the stone furnace of Celebrindal's silver hands. I would bring to an end this minute-by-minute, hourly, daily, yearly torture of living as a shell, hollow, crumbling, starving, reaching to be filled by anything, anything that will come to me. I would my Sharp Glance were blinded as to not see her distrust, her fear, her loathing. I would sever my hands if it would end this craving to touch her flesh, her bones. I would end this futile labour, seeking to fill my empty palms with silver and jewels, steel and stone, bending their beauty, their splendour to my will by sweat and force, and shaping only lifeless reflections of myself.  
  
But I cannot.  
  
"You are right." I stoop, retrieve the tools I had dropped to the ground. "My heart is already not my own. I have no need to fear Tuor."  
  
Ecthelion is not satisfied by this. "Why would you fear the power of love? It is the bringer of life."  
  
"And death."  
  
His brow lifts as if with revelation, his head inclining, and I chafe at the pure compassion which now wells within his eyes. "You speak of your mother," says he in low voice, not tender but with the coolness of a balm, a cold understanding.  
  
The pick and axe laying in my hands begin to tremble. "I speak of my mother. I speak of my father. I speak of my birth, and my life, and my death."  
  
"You are not yet dead, Maeglin."  
  
With a deafening crack I hew the rock before me, and it spills open, porous black, and there is not the diamond I sought within.  
  
"Your heart is in Gondolin, Ecthelion, like that of Turgon." I am breathing heavily, and sharply I sweep my hand at the broken fragments of the rock. "There lies Gondolin, friend. There will you lie, and him."  
  
My muscles quiver and seize, my clench tight to the handle of the axe, as the Elf-lord grows tall and pale before me.  
  
"You trouble me," he speaks softly.  
  
"Then stand not in my presence!" I snap in sudden and livid anger at his calm, standing to match his height.  
  
"My wish is only to help you," Ecthelion's voice grows stronger, sharper, his gaze narrow and pointed. He stands in guarded stance with rigid back, fingers clasping tightly to the rim of his unworn helm. "Yes, my heart is in Gondolin. But tell me," his expression is abruptly one of pain, his words a plea. "Where lies yours, Lord Maeglin?"  
  
The cave spins around me black and jagged, his voice echoing sloth as if through a deep pool of water. In desperation I reach out my hand but touch nothing, my feet pitching, unsteady. I stretch the other hand and it bears the axe, strikes the stone wall, and with the jolt of impact the world stills.   
  
"My heart lies in a fire!" I cry in anguish, slamming the axe forward, splintering the solid rock, pain lancing through my wrists. "In a gold, white, silver blaze which chars but does not consume, which intensifies and does not burn out, an ever-present wreathe of flaming fangs which do not loosen their grip, and I cannot touch them but sear my hand, and I cannot look but scald my eyes, and I feel nothing but the burning, the branding of my spirit . . ."  
  
I gasp, for my throat burns in breath. The axe plummets from my hand, and I long to reach out to Ecthelion but he stands cold and white in his armour, looking at me as one foreign to him. I let my hands fall.  
  
"I do not live," my words rasp at last. "But I cannot die."  
  
We stand and stare at each other, as the perspiration grows waxy on my skin, and one by one the doors within his eyes shut, so that at last his face is unreadable.  
  
He does not understand.  
  
"Go," I say, my voice chilled. "I will come to the council."  
  
This news does not bring him pleasure, as perhaps once it would have. "Then I take my leave," he says, and bows, and steps back.  
  
He takes his leave. And I am left with empty hands and a broken wrist to gaze at the pieces of rock at my feet, discovering too late a single, glittering white jewel cast among the pebbles.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_ 


	13. Part 13

***Disclaimer: Yet another glorious sunset in Gondolin which, sadly, like the pair who watch it, does not really belong to me.***  
  
  
Part 13  
  
  
At sundown Turgon will hold council with his lords, and the hour draws near. Blushing Vása spreads arms gold and violet across the horizon, though already her yellow face hides behind the tall Echoriath which encircle the city. Turgon stands on his balcony in king-helm and crest, hands to the stone-carved railing, face to the mountains. I move up to stand beside him, a slight wind lifting my hair off my neck as I recall a night many years ago, before the Nirnaeth, when we stood the same.  
  
"Look at it, Lomion," Turgon has lapsed into Quenya, the ancient words rich as if carved with both exquisite pain and joy immeasurable. "Look at Ondolindë with me."  
  
So I look, at mounds of gold and grey mallorn trees, slender birches, dark evergreens; at courtyards strewn with uilos, the Ever-white, and green-clothed hills of grass. I see the Tower of the King high and white upon pillars, the fountains as bowls filled with diamond, the mountains standing shadow guard from every perspective. Streams of pearly water tumble though tree grove and graven stone. I see the great Gates leading out: steel, gold, silver, iron, bronze, stone, wood. I see the Hidden Kingdom, the Hidden Rock of the Music of Water.  
  
"I am an Exile," says Turgon. "In Valinor I left behind Tirion that I loved, crossing the Helcaraxë with my people. On the Helcaraxë I left behind Elenwë whom I loved, come to Middle-Earth. I was left a stranger in an unknown land with little belonging to me but a daughter and a kindred and a Curse. I may never look again on that which I left behind.  
  
"But here in this City lives again the image of fair Tirion," his hand sweeps a pillar, his impassioned gaze arching over the city as a lover admires his bride. "I have build this kingdom of stone upon my heart, and there shall it stand forever."  
  
A single white stroke of pity touches my heart and I do not respond, for he cares not at this moment for logic and reality. The Havens are built on the Isle of Balar, and the ships go out from there to seek the far West, but he speaks of neither, caring only for the city in which he stands.  
  
Even I am moved by the sight of twilit Gondolin, and my gaze sweeps the King's gardens below us, for Idril knows the heart of her father and oft stays in view or sings within hearing when he is deeply troubled. But amid the flowered trellises and carven statues I do not find her, in the faint song of the wind I do not hear her voice, and my face swiftly draws to frown.  
  
"What has become of Idril Celebrindal?" I ask without thinking.  
  
"She walks by the city walls with Tuor," answers Turgon.  
  
The words are frozen, slowed ,entering my ears as if through a thick wall. 'She walks--' Idril does not walk, she dances, she springs, she flies-- 'by the city walls--' why does she go by the walls, her happiness is in the waters-- 'with Tuor . . .' With Tuor. She walks with Tuor. With Tuor? Why does she walk with Tuor?  
  
Betrayal stabs my heart as a hot and cleaved blade, and it is not hers but his, this Messenger, this Man, who when he did not take my heart in the Tower sought it to where it lies, to steal that which holds it, to leave it bruised, bleeding, naked, houseless . . .  
  
Vása is gone, and night is borne upon Gondolin, the stars yet lending but faint silver light to the sky.  
  
"Come Maeglin," says Turgon, turning from me. "The Lords wait in council-chamber."  
  
I must unclench my fingers from the railing before I am able to follow his footsteps, my pulse throbbing wildly in my throat. We go to Council with no purpose. Turgon has made his decision, and I mine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_ 


	14. Part 14

***Disclaimer: The lords and Houses of Gondolin are not my property (darn it! 10 elf-lords in one room sounds pretty good to me).***  
  
[Author's Note: This scene ends rather abruptly; I should get around to fixing it one of these days... Blame the delay on my math teacher. Also: Many thanks to Finch; you are my Varda.]  
  
  
Part 14  
  
  
The lords of the Houses of Gondolin are seated, their faces cast as stony as the table before them. The King sits at the head, grave and resplendent in gold, red, white, bearing on his crest the Heart of Fingolfin, the Sun of the House of Finwe, and the Moon. To his left in blue mantle is Egalmoth, an opal on his lofty helm to signify that he is Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch, a house for the wealthy, the treasure-hoarders. Beside Egalmoth is Ecthelion of the Fountain, silvered and steely, and he looks long across the table at me before extending his hand, a peace offering.  
  
But I recoil, my gut knotting at the probing depth of his eyes, the sharp glitter of the white diamond on his brow, and I do not touch him though his palm lay open and flat. I do not so quickly forget the repugnance, the fear that rose in his face when we stood in the mine. I will not let him seek further confidence. I will not be opened up and explored like a cave. I will not be responsible for his destruction.   
  
I represent the House of the Mole; I wear no decoration.  
  
On Ecthelion's left is Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Glorfindel, a noble warrior, a dream-dwelling artist. His face is young and keen, his arms banded with gold. He speaks with Duilin of the Swallow House, a house of formidable archers. Duilin is darker-clad, of a sharp countenance; his eyes search all present, but ever return to the face of Turgon.   
  
I am seated next to Salgant, lord of the House of the Harp. A valiant house, but they are led by a tasselled coward. Salgant stayed behind from the Nirnaeth in protection of the City, and he has grown comfortable in Gondolin, soft and sluggish. The flesh around his eyes dulls their Light, and his limbs rest heavily in chairs.  
  
He seeks to engage me in conversation, though I persist in ignoring him.  
  
Down from Salgant is Penlod the Tall, who leads both the House of the Pillar and of the Tower of Snow, and the green-clad Galdor of the House of the Tree, and Rog of the Hammer of Wrath, strongest of the Gondolodrim. Soft conversations gradually dim, and all heads turn to the king.  
  
Turgon speaks, and so begins the council to decide the fate of Gondolin.  
  
"We all know of the Doom of Mandos which was laid upon the exiled Noldor," says the King of Gondolin, and heavily his words weigh in the air. "It was said that all our works within Middle-Earth shall be destroyed. Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, led me to this hidden valley of Tumladen that I might build a kingdom unseen, and so would be protected. But he did not think that by doing so he protected us from the Curse, only delayed its consummation. Three-hundred and seventy-nine years ago I left my castle on Mount Taras in Nevrast, but at the bidding of Ulmo left there a suit of armour upon the wall, that in time, he said, I would recognize his messenger.  
  
"In that same armour," he says slowly, his eyes turning to pierce each of our faces, "has come Tuor, son of Huor of the House of Hador whom we sheltered years ago. And he brings a message of warning, of short time before the Curse is fulfilled and Gondolin perishes. His advice is to go down Sirion, to the sea, to the Havens, and leave the Hidden Kingdom before it is found. We must now decide what course to follow."  
  
For a moment the lords keep silent, looking to each other as though to read the thoughts of the others present. It is Egalmoth who speaks first.  
  
"I do not know what is to be decided," he says, his gaze passing from Ecthelion to Turgon. "We must heed this and leave before all is destroyed."  
  
I am startled that he is so bold, so quick to sunder himself from Gondolin. Perhaps his love for his gold is stronger, so that he seeks above all to protect it.  
  
Penlod voices my thoughts, his brow low, voice quietly disturbed. "You are hasty in decision, Lord Egalmoth. If our Lord King has reason to doubt this Man, then his opinion is not without merit. Let us consider what in the message was truth from Ulmo, and what were perhaps Tuor's own words."  
  
"And that perhaps they were all of the mind of Tuor," I interject.  
  
Ecthelion looks at me sharply, though his words are directed to all. "Did you not see that with which he was cloaked?" he demands. "It was an impenetrable mist. His voice caused the very ground to tremble. It was not of his own power that this came about."  
  
"It was an impressive show," I agree. "From a skilled speaker. But more is needed to prove he came of a Vala than a commanding performance."  
  
Duilin glances between Ecthelion and myself. "He wears the armour and carries the sword of Vinyamar," is his neutral observation.   
  
"He fulfils the prophecy," states Ecthelion in firm voice. "For no other reason could he have found the ruins at Nevrast in the precise time that Voronwe Aranwion was there. He was intended to guide him here to Gondolin."  
  
"Yes, there is also Voronwe his companion." I emphasize 'companion' rather than 'guide,' my eyes sliding from the Lord of the Fountains, and I incline my chin to Turgon. "My lord set the armour in Vinyamar in the sight of many. Could not this Voronwe have met with Tuor and led him not only to Gondolin, but even to Nevrast, telling him the tale of Ulmo's promise?"  
  
Penlod's voice has chilled slightly, his manner precise and quiet. "Voronwe is above suspicion."  
  
Rog regards me in perplexity, seconding, "What would be his purpose in doing this? Though I do not doubt your intent is not such, you sew needless distrust, Lord Maeglin."  
  
I lift my eyebrows as though I am surprised by their vehement response, showing a palm of peace. "I do not know what his purpose would be, nor do I say that it was so. I simply show the width of the margin of doubt, and pray that my lords give this matter the consideration and investigation it deserves."  
  
Lord Glorfindel speaks for the first time. "Alas that we look too deeply with our eyes at a matter of heart and spirit. Ecthelion saw the will of Ulmo in this Man; I also feel the burden which is laid on his soul. Perhaps it is not prudence but prejudice which holds us in doubt."  
  
Only my ingrained respect for Glorfindel restrains a leap of anger at this remark, for it is not "us" who doubts, but I alone. Duilin holds himself impartial, as is his way until the moment of final decision comes. Galdor speaks not, nor does Salgant. I must search out support or be disregarded entirely.  
  
"You speak with perception, Lord Glorfindel, yet I hold myself innocent of this charge, for it is often that I forget Tuor is not of our kind, nor has not always dwelt among us as a friend. But I have said all that I wish, and I would now listen to the judgement of others." I turn on Salgant abruptly, giving him a smile and a nod. "My Lord Salgant has not shared his opinion on this concern," I say in invitation.  
  
Salgant is now the focus of all gazes, and a moment he takes to fold his hands atop the table, jewelled rings catching candlelight in an efficiently distracting way. "I confess I am not well educated in this matter," he says in pleasant voice. "But is not Huor who with his brother was sheltered here the father of this Tuor? Could he not have disclosed the matter of Gondolin to his son?"  
  
"He could not," Turgon interrupts with finality in his voice. "Huor perished in the Nirnaeth while Tuor was yet unborn. Even if he had had the will to share his speculations with his wife-- for he knew not in certain our location-- she could not have given this information to Tuor, for she also died shortly after giving birth. And," he adds more softly. "I know that Huor had not the will to tell, for he was an honourable Man."  
  
Salgant nods attentively. "Then I must make a second confession, that in part I fall under Lord Glorfindel's charge of prejudice. The Curse of Mandos is a matter of Elves, the Noldor specifically. Why then would a Man be made to interfere?"  
  
"Say not interfere," Ecthelion answers him. "For it is a matter of the Noldor and the Valar, and it is on Ulmo's behalf that he comes."  
  
"As I see it, the matter of the messenger is irrelevant," Egalmoth's voice raises. "As is the hour and perpetrator of our destruction. We need only know that the hour comes, closer tomorrow than it was today, and Gondolin no longer is a name of half-believed legend but a city known to be real and true. That which is real can be destroyed. We must leave for the Havens."  
  
"The people of Gondolin will not be so easily uprooted," says Galdor of the House of the Tree in a faint and gentle voice peculiar to him. "Many have survived the destruction of other homes, other friends. Some will try to flee in panic, without reason or knowledge of where they go. All hearts will be crushed by the foreknowledge, and left without will to fight."  
  
"Then you mean for us to sit and wait for an attack?" Penlod asks.   
  
"I would not spend my life in wait," Galdor answers. "I say rather live until our doom is come, then fight with what we may."  
  
I look to Turgon but he sees me not, for his eyes rest on the pale and disquieted face of Ecthelion.  
  
"I do not like to let the chance of hope pass us by," the Lord of the Fountains says softly. "I think not of my valiant House, who would give their lives many times over in defence of Gondolin, but of the children, and the maidens, and the young Elves who have not yet submitted their lives to a City or a lord, but still grasp them with their own hands, their own purpose. I would not have them stilled." He straightens up. "I have heard the hearts of my lords, and against some I speak. But that of my King, I will yield to."  
  
His pledge is taken up by Glorfindel, by Rog, by Salgant and Penlod and Egalmoth and Galdor. "As will I," I echo their voices, for I know the heart of my king, and I know that neither elf nor man will leave Gondolin while its gates still stand.  
  
Duilin speaks last, he who watched Turgon through the council and spoke little. He stands. "I will follow the will of my king," he says, bowing slightly. "But I do not yield my heart."  
  
So perhaps I am not the only one who sees the doom of Gondolin resting in Turgon's stone eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_ 


	15. Part 15

***Disclaimer: Not mine.***  
  
  
  
Part 15  
  
Beauty can be such a burden at times.  
  
I lower the rough sack from my shoulder with a grunt of relief, dropping it to the grassy banks of the river flowing rapid and delicious before my feet. I take a moment to stretch, savouring the absence of gem facets and tool points digging against my back, but soon give in to the seductive advances of the clear water lapping against my feet. My tunic is unlaced and removed with little trouble, and I add my thin silver circlet to the heap of precious stones inside the sack, twining my hair behind my neck with a leather band. Eagerly and somewhat less than gracefully, I clamber down the banks.  
  
I suck my breath in as the icy water slaps quickly up my thighs to my bare torso, splaying my hands for balance. I am startled a moment at the sight of them, for they are rough and black almost beyond recognition. One bleeds from a small cut. Peering into the water I find my face and neck in similar condition, caked with dust and streaked with black. My eyes stand out disconcerting, bright and reddened.  
  
Dipping and scrubbing my arms, the dirt begins to disperse, forming a dark cloud in the water surrounding me. I lower myself, enjoying the quiet rush of the water sweeping over my shoulders, and with a few quick strokes propel further down the stream, halting beneath the dangling silver branches a great willow tree grown on the bank. Tiredly I sink beneath the surface of the water, passing hands over my face to scrape away the grime, opening my mouth to the cool, thrusting liquid.  
  
Gathering my legs beneath me I break the surface, shooting the water from my mouth as I smooth back my hair, sucking a deep breath.  
  
"Lord Maeglin! You startled us."  
  
I turn and there Salgant chuckles comfortably from his perch upon a tall white horse, voluminous robes arranged artfully around him as his steed approaches the riverbank at a leisurely walk. Mounted beside him is Elemmakil, Captain of the Guard and my ex-swordmaster. He looks on me with interest, and unconsciously I straighten my shoulders, drawing upright and meeting his gaze evenly as though he scrutinizes my posture.  
  
"You have been long away from the city, my lord," he speaks cordially, frankly, yet I get the distinct impression that he does indeed inspect my posture. "Lord Egalmoth fears you are gathering a treasure hoard to rival his own."  
  
I relax. "He need not."  
  
"I hope you have something to show for your long absence," Salgant interjects, eyeing my discarded sack with a cursory interest. "We missed your presence at the King's feast, or at least I did. I swiftly grew weary of Rog's arguments, Duilin is never merry, and Ecthelion's taste for wine leaves him incapable of anything but song." He laughs merrily, reining his horse in to halt. "Not that we shall see more of you now, I fear, for these gems look to be enough to keep you in your smithy for several months."  
  
Elemmakil smiles. "Perhaps you will join the festival games next moon. It has been a long time since I have seen you at the tournament halls."  
  
"Yet you will find my skills are the same." I swipe a drip of moisture from my nose and step closer to the bank. "Do you ride the forest for pleasure, my lords, or do I hinder your task?"  
  
"I ride to join Galdor and Duilin for a hunt," Salgant answers me, his face jovial as he nods to his companion. "But Elemmakil, it seems, has become the royal nursemaid. The King has lost knowledge of his daughter's whereabouts and seeks to speak with her over some trivial matter he will not elaborate on. I do believe he worries she has finally given her heart to some sprightly noble or another."  
  
Elemmakil's palfrey paces backward, and he turns his head to me. "The Lady Idril has been out of our notice for several days. Have you seen her?"  
  
"I have not."  
  
"Perhaps if you chance to, you will mention her father's concern." Elemmakil prepares to take his leave, obviously having noticed my hinted dismissal.  
  
Salgant appears to have missed it. "Lord Maeglin, you would not have been present for the most recent news to stir the City. Our mortal friend Master Tuor has taken up permanent residence in the house of the King, and some say he will be made a lord of Gondolin. But perhaps Turgon has spoken of this to you?"  
  
I smile in slight, a wry smile of irony. So Turgon seeks to ease his conscience of ignoring the messenger of Ulmo by giving him favour and glory. And Tuor makes his home in the kingdom whose destruction he came to foretell. There see the hearts of Ilúvatar's fair children.  
  
"I had not heard anything of the matter. I think I shall soon speak with Master Tuor."  
  
"Do indeed," Salgant babbles on, even as Elemmakil draws away. "He tells a most fascinating tale, even when speaking of his own life. One soon forgets how short a time he has lived."  
  
"But we will leave you to bathe," Elemmakil cuts in at last, his eyes again coming to rest on me as he pauses a moment. "You look well, my lord."  
  
"I am," I say shortly, pushing aside river-reeds to stand against the bank, uncomfortable under his examination though I know not what he seeks. He inclines his head and steers away, but I call him back, reaching for the sack containing my uncovered treasures. I search a moment through the stones before withdrawing a roughly hewn gem of deep red; held to the light, a six-rayed star reflected in unseen rutile crystal particles. "It is not yet cut," I say apologetically, holding it up to him. "But will you take this for your daughter?"  
  
Reluctantly, the guard leans to reach for it. "I will take it," he says, holding it in his palm uncertainly. Then he smiles, faintly. "Though I think perhaps she would prefer it set in a suit of armour."  
  
I raise my eyebrows, stretching my arm to take it back from his hand. "Then she shall have it so."  
  
Elemmakil quickly tucks the gem in a leather pouch at his waist, saying, "Thank you, Master Maeglin, she shall not."   
  
I smile, bidding him farewell, and bow to Salgant who has finally taken notice of my current state of half undress and is now backing away from the river. The sleek horses waste no time picking up pace, and soon the pair are out of sight, weaving among the tall dark tree trunks. Shivering now, I sink back into the water, setting feet against the clay bottom to push toward the other bank.  
  
"They are gone," I say quietly to the bird-twittered silence, laying back in the water.  
  
For a heartbeat there is no answer. Then a small rustling from high in the branches of the willow above me, and voice like the sweet drippings of honeysuckle says softly, "Thank you."  
  
I close my eyes and swallow, for I wish to take those words, the kindest and most sincere she has ever spoken to me, and I wish to encase them in silver and wear them on my breast. "Why do you hide from your father?"  
  
"It must seem as a child's behaviour to you. But I do not wish to be sent for. If he truly wishes to speak with me, he will not have trouble finding me."  
  
I open my eyes, reaching to pluck a single slender leaf from the branch over my head. "You had a disagreement with him."  
  
Her silver feet dangle below the hem of her gown, and her golden hair is swept up, crowned with leaves. Small yellow flowers have been twined around her bare arms and she looks not at me but to the sky in distraction, her hands resting lightly on the tree branch on which she sits.  
  
"He listens to no one," Idril speaks softly, her voice inflected faint by distress. "He has never heeded his daughter, the dancing silverfoot, for her mind was estranged by grief in her childhood, and now she is guided by idle whims and strange sight. But he shuns his counsellors also, even to his own conscience. He blinds his eyes and stops his ears, following only the will of his heart. He gives himself to a City. He listens to no one."  
  
I ache for her pain and at her loveliness, again shutting my eyes and breathing slowly into the water, attempting to still the rapid thoughts of my mind.  
  
If I climbed the tree she could not run.  
  
If I shook it, her precarious balance would let her fall.  
  
Could I end the desire?  
  
Could I end it with her death?  
  
In her silence my ears strain for the sound of her breath.   
  
"You bleed, cousin," she says to me, her voice strange and quiet.  
  
"I often cut myself while mining," I answer, uncertain that it is the present cut on my hand that she speaks of.  
  
"That is unfortunate."  
  
I swallow, turning my head up to peer at her, but she has retreated, her limbs folded up on the branch, arms clasped around her legs. "Will you not come down, Celebrindal?"  
  
"I will not," she replies, not ungraciously but matter-of-fact.  
  
"Why not?" I persist, petulantly, grasping a branch with my hand. I could climb up. She has nowhere to go.  
  
"Because I have drawn too near before," Idril's voice remains sweet and faraway, and still she looks not to me.  
  
"Years have passed since we last spoke alone. I grow older, Idril, I grow wiser. It is not my intention to frighten or anger you." My clench on the branch tightens, and I feel desperate, so desperate, to convince her of my integrity.  
  
"Your heart is the same. Why do you love me, Maeglin?"  
  
I am startled a moment to silence. But from Idril alone I have never hidden my mind, nor my heart. I cannot. "Why do I breathe? It is what keeps me alive."  
  
"Do you know me?" she asks, and a leaf falls from her hair. Lightly it lands on the river near me, and I fight the impulse to snatch it. "Do you even know what it is that you love, or do you love me as we love the stars, the sea, that which is mysterious and unfathomable to our minds?"  
  
I stand up, resting my head against the branch, water dripping from my chest. My hand has caught the leaf before the current sweeps it away, and I study it, running my finger against the smooth veins. "I know that you love your father and perceive his heart most clearly, and because of this it is he that grieves you the most. I know that while you care for the people who are held within, you do not love Gondolin, not as he does, and ever your heart is turned to the water, to the sea, for it is the same waters which touch the home you left behind in Valinor, and to the frozen sea your mother fell when she died crossing the Grinding Ice. I know that you prefer solitude to the company of others, and that when you dance it is not to please an audience but to release what you cannot express or understand.   
  
"I know that you do not love me, though I do not know why," I finish, low, and tightly my palm curls around the leaf.  
  
She takes a moment to answer. "I cannot love what I fear."  
  
"I do," I say swiftly, my voice raw.  
  
This surprises her. "Why do you fear me?"  
  
"Because I belong to you--"  
  
"You do not belong to me."  
  
"I would give myself if you would take me. But you do not. You overpower me Idril, even though you do not wish it, I am held in my entirety by your very glance. If you were to touch me, I do not know what I would or could do. I do not know. That is what I fear." I push aside the hanging willow leaves, and her ivory face is turned down to me. Her eyes fix in mine, pale cloud to adamant ebony, and it is not she that trembles, but I.  
  
"Why do you fear me?" I ask.  
  
Her eyelids drop, lashes casting shadow though she does not break our gaze. "I do not know."  
  
It is the answer I feared most. Far-seeing Idril-- her pale river-froth eyes do not blink-- her idle whims and strange sight . . . "What do you see when you look at me?" I demand hoarsely, and the leaf is crushed in my fist. "Look at me, Celebrindal. Come down and look at me. Tell me what you see."  
  
One slim foot extends, rests tentatively on a branch below her. I catch my breath, my heart beating so that I do not think my flesh can contain it. The other foot follows, a slender arch as her toes curl over the tree stalk. A fleeting glimpse of white skin as her legs bend and then she is crouching on the branch, pale green gown swinging, hands still holding the branch above her. She looks at me, her face still and liquid eyes searching, and it is only her lips that betray her, pink sea-pearls parted and shivering with breath.  
  
I wet my lips, releasing the splintered leaf from my hand when I hold it up to her. She descends further, and she is nearer, oh so near, soft and golden and alive, but still she does not take my hand, until she is a bare body-length away from me. Then she touches my hand, her fingers feather-light, and my hand is quivering wildly and my mind is blank white, perspiration beading with the effort to hold my palm flat, to restrain it from seizing her with the grip that holds iron and swings hammer to shatter stone. She flattens her palm against mine and slides down to the lowest branch so that she is facing me, her feet hanging in the rushing water, and I feel her breath heavy and warm against my brow.  
  
"What do you see?" I whisper, for the tension in my throat allows naught else.  
  
Her mouth closes gently, lower lip curling in and out again, glistening. My eyes stroke the curve of her neck, where pale tendrils fall from her braids, grazing lines of translucent skin drawn over fine bone, and a fire burns in the pit of my stomach. The air between our palms is moist, and she trembles against me, and my fingers are drawn so taut they ache. My bare skin has grown clammy. The water threatens to collapse my legs.  
  
Her eyes suddenly skit from mine, downy lids fluttering as her lips press tightly together.  
  
"Why do you tense so, Maeglin?" she whispers.  
  
"Tell me what you see," my voice is abruptly a vicious snarl, and I seize her hand, snapping it to my mouth as my other hand encircles her wrist. My lips run against her fingers, and they are cool and smooth against the hotness of my mouth, and I kiss them, violently, wrapping my mouth around a single fingertip sweet and silver, pressing tooth edge sharp against the tender flesh. She cries out and with my tongue I caress the injury, the nectar of her skin filling my mouth, and I am drunk with it, dizzy.  
  
She gasps, her words issuing so hastily that they overrun each other. "I see many things! Many things and I do not understand them, for they are all shadows and light. I see you bent in the forge . . . No," she slows, pensively. "No, it is not you. It is Eöl. He forges a sword . . . a black sword . . ." Her eyes are beyond mine, glazed, unblinking.  
  
I shake her, and she blinks, crying, "Maeglin, do not hate your father!"  
  
I pull her hard from the branch, crushing her delicate frame against me, her body curving warm and lithe to the flat hardness of my own. My heels skid and we fall down into the water, and cold it splashes into my throat, in my nostrils, but holding her to me as the current battles to tear her away I lose all perception, blue and white streaming past my eyes, gold strands snarling over my face, I hear only her harsh breathing, feel only the silky smoothness as her arms slip from my grip.  
  
I press my lips to her cheek in desperation, even as water chokes itself out from my throat. She tastes as purest dew held in pale flower and then she is gone and I gasp only for breath, stumbling for the bank as she climbs it, her shoulders shivering, the yellow flowers hanging drowned and limp from her arms. Her stumbling feet knock over my sack and I watch in dazed horror as the jewels tumble into the stream, scattering to the bottom, some flitting with the pull of the water. Dropping to my knees I begin to gather them, spitting water, fingers fumbling for the slippery stones spreading blue, violet, amber, glittering through the clear water.  
  
Idril Celebrindal stands wilted on the grass, hands holding the sopping gown above her feet as she falters backward, pleading as she goes, "Do not hate your father, Maeglin, do not despise yourself. Do not be afraid . . ."  
  
"I am not afraid!" I cry and my voice is mangled beyond recognition. A diamond slips from my fingers and frantically I grasp for it.   
  
"Then know me as you claim to, know that I cannot love you, and seek another. Make a promise to me, Maeglin, that you will find something to love," her eyes are wide and wild, and she continues away from me. She looks to me again, and I am pained, my hands waver, but then she flees.  
  
Idril the Ever-child, who knows what she does not understand, who dances silver-trod in water and cries to the seas to take her home. She flees from me, frightened, for she is a child.  
  
My hand closes around a sharp stone and again my skin is pierced, sharply, stinging as blood runs sudden and warm against my palm. I do not cry out, pulling the gemstone from the water and rolling it to the sack.  
  
"I am not afraid," I whisper, my mind is fogged by confusion, and I suck the wound to stop the bleeding.   
  
What have I to fear?  
  
Myself? Not yet. Not until my love for her dies.  
  
Then I will be empty.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
__________  
  
[Author's Note: Whew. That was difficult, mainly because I completely don't understand why Idril doesn't love Maeglin. I'll leave her side of the story, however, up to Philosopher At Large, whose supremely excellent "The Timelost" I am now shamelessly drawing from for the character of Idril. If you haven't read it, go now! Or I'll detach Gothmog from Ecthelion's helmet and send him after you. ^_^   
  
Coming soon will be Idril and Tuor's wedding... At least that's the plan. The muse may dictate otherwise. ] 


	16. Part 16

***Disclaimer: Gondolin and all that is within does not belong to me and I have no right to use it. Yes, I am deeply ashamed.***  
  
  
  
Part 16  
  
  
Standing in my smithy, I shift the jewels balanced in my palm. They are ones I rescued from the river, and for a moment I am uncertain.  
  
No. It was wise to retrieve them. Had I instead pursued Idril, being fleeter of foot than I she would have eluded me, and my hand would now be empty.  
  
Though I feel that perhaps it is yet so, as is the rest of me.  
  
I let the stones fall onto the wooden tabletop beside me, suddenly seized with a frenetic desire. To be loved by Idril, to have her light shine for me alone . . . it is a dream, never felt, never known, only a spider-silk idea which wraps itself around my mind, at first light and barely tangible yet growing ever thicker, ever tighter in its weavings. And when she spurns me, gentle, logical, fearful, I am bound fast and the arachnid teeth pierce my heart, draining a little of what light remains there, the only brightness I possess: my love for Celebrindal, for a being so pure that no darkness can long be fastened to her, not even my own lust.  
  
And yet if I possessed her . . . If I took her fully, and kept her for myself alone, would not her light shine the same?  
  
Or would my darkness overpower?  
  
I pace a moment, brow furrowed in thought, but my hands will stay still no longer and sharply I seize my heavy leather apron, tugging gloves of the same material up to my elbows. With flint and steel I light the fire in my furnace, and when it licks high and crimson I drag over a cart filled with slabs of gold ore, shovelling a few pieces into the furnace. I watch the slag as it separates from the gold.  
  
Now is the time when I would add other metals to the gold, to make it stronger, more durable.  
  
But this gold must remain unsullied.  
  
Bright molten metal begins to pour into the tray beneath, and grasping the long handle I pour it into a stone mould, forming thin, bubbling yellow bars. My mind is far ahead of my hands-- already I see pounding, cutting, weaving around silk strands to form gold lace-- and my grip is careless. The molten metal splashes onto my arm just above the glove, spreading as it burns quickly through the material of my sleeve. I hiss in pain, clenching my teeth while the tray clatters to the floor.  
  
But I do not heed the burn further for I am driven beyond the cares of my body. I cast open the doors of my store, and shelves of precious and semi-precious stones flicker dully in reflections of the firelight, amber and onyx gleaming opaque and smooth. My hand passes over them all in sequence, resting at last on two small star-stones, alike to the ruby I gave to Elemmakil except that they are blue, a filmy silver-blue. Grasping them, they are tucked into the pocket of my apron while I search deeper in the storeroom, finding at last a piece of ivory the length of my forearm.  
  
"Lord Maeglin?" sounds a soft voice as I back out of the store, and wheeling I find a young Elf standing in the doorway leading to the back room; an Elf of my House, I deem, for his jerkin is sable and bears no emblem.  
  
"Enerdhil," a name comes to my lips as my eyes cut to his face, reaching to my tool table for a sharp, dainty scalpel. "Why are you here?"  
  
He is indeed of the House of the Mole, tilling the underground for gems. But unlike the others of my House he despises the darkness of the mines, and for great lengths of time will abandon them completely, seeking instead the open woods. Some proclaim him to be the greatest jewelsmith since Fëanor, yet his works are so few that none are certain.  
  
He stands now across from me and I see that he is exhausted, for his eyes are hooded, his sharp features slack and pale, shoulders rolled into a slump. Yet he smiles as one content, pushing a slender braid behind his ear. "I have made a gem, my lord," he says faintly, one hand gripping the doorframe as though to support himself.  
  
"Sit down, Master Jewelsmith, before you fall," I command, though not unkindly, sinking to a chair myself and holding the ivory piece in one hand. With my thumb against the scalpel I begin to scrape the soft white bone.  
  
Enerdhil drags a wooden chair from beside the furnace to sit across the table from me, and glancing up I see now that he holds something in his lap. "Long was the making of this jewel, and if you asked, lord, I could not remember all of what was put into it," the Elf says, and his eyes are not on me, fixed below the level of the tabletop.  
  
"And if you could, I would not ask it, Enerdhil," I respond, pausing with the scalpel shifting between my finger and thumb. "It has been a long time since you have laboured over a mould. What caused you to leave the trees for the smithy?"  
  
He looks at me now, and his eyes are not so weary as I thought, but bright beneath the heavy lids. "The trees," he answers. "How the light and the sky shine through their leaves. I looked at it and I knew that the trees will not last, that someday they will die and perhaps with time will grow no more in this land. I looked at the light and I wished to capture its likeness. I did not know if I truly could. And yet I have."  
  
My gaze is on the ivory as the first hints of shape begin to form, but at his words I look up, and his hand rests upon the table surface, a gem laid on his palm. It is green, a clear, lush, faceted green, with both the deepness of pine trees and fairer gleam of mint leaves. Enerdhil shifts his hand and the green is splintered, scattered with strokes of light pale and gold that emit from something deeper, a hint of blue. Sunlight through the trees.  
  
I frown and reach to him, taking the stone from his palm and holding it against my arm, as though to block any firelight which may be caught in the gem. Still it glitters, brighter against my dark sleeve.  
  
I pass it to him, fingers flying back to the ivory to smooth shavings from the gentle slope of a brow. "And you have done it well, Enerdhil. I have never seen such a gem before."  
  
"Thank you, my lord," he looks at me now from drowsy, shining eyes, fingering the stone, his speech quickening with cautious enthusiasm. "I thought to give it to the Lady Idril, for would she not shine through it brighter and fairer than the sun?"  
  
Meticulously I slide the scalpel against the ivory. The delicate point of a nose. Swoop down, and out: the tender blossom of maiden's lips. "She is very fair."  
  
"More so than I am gifted to say, lord, for I have not skill with words. Yet perhaps through this gift she will know my heart."  
  
I lift an eyebrow though I do not take my eyes from the slow, graceful lines forming an ivory neck. "Do you seek her suit, young Enerdhil?"  
  
He is startled, sitting upright, lowering the gemstone again to his lap. "No, my lord, that is not my intention. I simply mean to show her my admiration. I would not deem to . . . I would not." He hesitates then, looking away from me.  
  
I set aside the carving, rising from the table to fetch a single gold bar-- still warm to the touch-- and setting it atop a stone slab. I pull on my gloves once more and Enerdhil stands to pass me a hammer. "There is another maiden for you, then?" I say to him, striking once against the bar to punctuate. The clear ring of metal reverberates around the smithy.  
  
"Of a sort."  
  
"Of a sort? Does she not return your affections?"  
  
Enerdhil holds his silence as swiftly I pound the gold, flattening it to a beaten leaf. "She has not said that she does not, lord," he answers at last. "But she does not say that does."  
  
"Well, what does she say?"  
  
The Elf is again seated at the table, his gaze down. "She says, 'Well met, Master Jewelsmith, and what marvel will you make today?' "  
  
I smile slightly in amusement as I reach up, loosening the hinges above me to allow a second stone slab to swing down to compress the gold sheet. Enerdhil's cheeks are flushed, with pleasure or embarrassment I know not. "Why do you not give her your green stone instead of the Lady?"  
  
"She would not wear it, my lord. She cares not for jewels."  
  
I push up the top slab, sliding the gold sheet out and carrying it to the table. Spreading it smooth with my hands, I loosen a sharp knife from the belt of my apron, setting the tip to the top of the sheet.  
  
"Except for one," Enerdhil adds absently. "There is one that I have seen her carry, though she does not wear it. It is a fine stone, a ruby, but rough, uncut."  
  
I wet my lips, and with a swift movement of my arm cut a fine ribbon of gold from the end of the sheet. "Have you asked her about it?"  
  
"I did, lord, and she said it was from a teacher. She keeps it as a reminder of what she has yet to learn."  
  
The next strip is cut quicker, not so fine.  
  
"She is not so fair as the aranel*, not so distant and splendid. Yet there is something in her . . . I cannot describe it, for I do not know such words." He halts abruptly. "I am sorry, lord, you do not wish to hear this."  
  
"Do I not? I was not aware that I am to consult you on what I do and do not wish to do, Enerdhil."  
  
"Forgive me, my lord," he replies haltingly. "I only assumed . . . " He peers at me from beneath his brow, and though his eyes are mild in deference I am uneasy and bend close to my work. "May I ask, Lord Maeglin," he begins anew, "why you have not married?"  
  
Standing again, I busily unroll a narrow length of silk, taking up my knife to the fine material. "You may ask, but you may not receive an answer. Why? Do you command me to marry, my lord Enerdhil?" I know I am torturing him, for Enerdhil is indeed as unskilled in speech as he claims and understands not the subtleties of sarcasm. Perhaps it will discourage further questions.  
  
He apologizes for the third time, pushing his chair back from the table a fraction.  
  
With pliers I begin to wrap wiry gold strips around the silk, and I sigh, for Enerdhil gazes mutely at the gem in his palm, and I wonder if he struggles to stay silent or awake. "It is not unusual for a Elf of my station," I say to him at last, somewhat grudgingly. "The lords Glorfindel and Ecthelion have not married."  
  
"They are warriors. They are not like you."  
  
I slant my eyebrows at him. "Now you will tell me what I am?"  
  
But he is smiling again, the dream-smile of contentment, and tiredly he leans an elbow on the table, resting his head against his palm. Green elfstone braced with his finger and thumb, he holds it to his eye, peering at me. "You are a great lord, noble in blood and in spirit. You are wise in council, but loathe to give it. You are a deft swordsman, though you do not like the bow. You do not shy from darkness, ugliness-- much of your life is spent there, in the mines. But you are ever seeking light and strength, in precious metals and gems. You see much and deeply. You are a great lord."  
  
I sit down, slowly, and I feel I am growing old, as a mortal does.  
  
Young Enerdhil, you see only fair things through your Elven-jewel. Perhaps you will learn from Lothelen. I will not teach you of life and of hearts, bright Elfling. No, I will keep you as you are now. It is a comfort to me.  
  
"Do you run through my virtues so quickly that you must repeat yourself?" I say aloud.  
  
He lowers the gem, blinking and smiling at me, and he bends his gaze to my still-fallen hands. "What do you make, my lord, of gold and of ivory?"  
  
"What can one make of gold and ivory, Master Jewelsmith, but gold and ivory?"  
  
I twine the gold lace around the head of the figurine as a flaxen braid. Searching my pocket, I find the two blue stones and gently set them in two concaves beneath the brow.  
  
And in front of me a lifeless facsimile of Idril smiles, eyes blue-gleaming stars, silver-white feet poised for a dance that will never take place, for the gold, wrapped while still warm and dense, begins to warp the ivory head.  
  
"I make nothing, Enerdhil. Nothing."  
  
I would that I could kindle fire and life as the greatest do, as Fëanor, as you Enerdhil. But I cannot, for we can put into our work only that which is within us, and of these I have but a shadow.  
  
My arm itches where I held his jewel, and distractedly, I scratch at it. A small piece of gold flakes off easily, and I frown, peer closer. Now I remember the splash of molten gold, the burn. Yet there is no mark, no pain, and I am puzzled.  
  
A last flicker of Enerdhil's gem catches my eye before he tucks it into his tunic, and a thought forms in my head. Perhaps the elfstone holds greater properties than he knows. Fitting, from such a creator, that it would bring healing. A pity, that with such a creator, it heals only the body.  
  
"The night grows long, Enerdhil," I tell him, sweeping the ruined ivory figurine into my lap. "You must rest."  
  
"So must you, my lord," he replies softly, gazing up at me with love.  
  
Hollow and dark, I ache, for he does not know what he loves. And ache turns to loathing, for I have not the courage to tell him.  
  
"I awaited only your order, Master Enerdhil."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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* aranel = princess  
  
[A/N: There are several different versions of the story of the Elessar's creator. One has a jewelsmith in Gondolin named Enerdhil as the maker of the original, with Celebrimbor later creating a second for Galadriel. Other versions have no Enerdhil and set up Celebrimbor or even Fëanor as the original maker. I went with the first one, however, because I don't care for Celebrimbor much, and anyway, Enerdhil was just more fun. Aaw... Elflings... Also, nothing says that he was in Maeglin's House, but I thought it possible, as it was a house of miners and smiths.] 


End file.
